


A Chronicle of His Adventures and Everything He’d Learned About Cleaning

by mossgraffiti



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: F/F, Friendship-Focused, Gen, M/M, No beta we die like archival assistants, canon-divergent fun and happiness, jon submits to the mortifying ordeal of being known, no spoilers for s3-5, non-paranormal, rating is for language
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-28
Updated: 2020-11-20
Packaged: 2021-03-02 16:55:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 24,319
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24430186
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mossgraffiti/pseuds/mossgraffiti
Summary: Jon and Melanie are flatmates. Tim and Sasha are coworkers. Shenanigans ensue.A very tired Jonathan Sims works at the boring, non-paranormal Magnus Institute and learns about friendship.There are copious amounts of pancake batter, snot-like eggs, displays of camaraderie in the form of nail polish, several weird potlucks, and mildly illegal activities.
Relationships: Georgie Barker/Melanie King, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist & Everyone, Martin Blackwood/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Melanie King & Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Sasha James & Tim Stoker
Comments: 44
Kudos: 236





	1. Very Tired

**Author's Note:**

> inspired by [these](https://twitter.com/NoConRob/status/1265108507986145282?s=20) tweets
> 
> the title comes from the about page on the mr clean website
> 
> basically, there's nothing paranormal. the statements exist, but they have actual, s1 sceptic jon-type explanations. the paranormal stuff that happens directly to the characters in canon only occurs to a degree that's reasonable in real life. so like, martin had worms in his flat but just normal worms.
> 
> the timeline won't be confusing if you don't think about it. 👍 sorry.
> 
> cw for swearing, alcohol, and brief drug mentions
> 
> (i will try to update this regularly. we'll see how that goes.)

Melanie King is not a good flatmate.

Jon sighs to his reflection in the toothpaste-spattered bathroom mirror. He rifles through one of the grocery bags that she’s left on the sink counter, inspecting the contents. It’s full of premade chocolate chip cookie dough. Another’s got four bags of frozen dinosaur-shaped vegan plant-based imitation chicken nuggets. Christ.

“Melanie?” he calls out.

“What?” she hollers back.

He loops his hands through the bag handles and moves them to the floor.

“Why did you leave groceries in the bathroom?”

To this, there is no response. He sighs again.

God, he thinks as he opens the cabinet under the sink to pull out the container of wipes. He needs to move out. Or at least get a different flatmate. But they’d both happened to be looking for new flats, and Georgie had pushed him, saying how she was sick of their bickering and how Jon needed to _make an effort, at least_.

Jon doesn’t see the reasoning behind thinking that people who argue often should live together, but Melanie needed someone to split rent with, especially following the demise of _Ghost Hunt UK_ , and despite Jon’s raise with his promotion to Head Archivist, so did he. He works in academia, after all, and this is London.

He contemplates this, regretting his life choices as he wipes the mirror, scrubbing away the stains. He wishes he could do the same to his brain. He’s moved on to the counter when he hears a pattering rush of footsteps. Melanie slides the last few feet to the bathroom with her socks, catching herself on the door frame. 

“Whoops,” she says, snatching up the grocery bags. “Ran in here as soon as I got in because I had to pee real bad. I’d been holding it in since the store, and these people in front of me were taking up the whole sidewalk and walking so slow.” With this explanation that both holds too much information and leaves something to be desired, she takes off, sock-skating down into the kitchen, spreading her arms wide, and the bags whack against the wall.

Jon follows her out, winces at the sound. “And you didn’t think to put the groceries away when you were done?”

“Forgot.” She shrugs, pulling various packages out and tucking them in their corresponding cabinets. She swings open the freezer door, shoves the nuggets in, not even bothering to place them on a shelf, and slams it quickly shut.

Jon pinches at the skin between his eyebrows. “Those will fall out on top of you as soon as you next open the door.”

“Then you can open it,” she says, grinning at him as she balls up the now-empty bags and throws them onto the table like she’s shooting free throws.

Jon feels very tired. He heads back to the bathroom and scrubs the counter until it shines. The wipe squelches under the pressure of his hand.

***

Jon opens the file in front of him and thumbs through pages absently. They’re out of order. Another statement, another idiot that got high and paranoid and scared by their own reflection. Nothing new. He orders the pages, straightens them with two taps against his desk, and tucks them back into the file before shutting it closed. He sits back in his chair and stares at it blankly.

Time is passing. Obviously it is, but sometimes it’s almost difficult for Jon to keep track. The days go by slowly but somehow in a blur, melding into a continuous loop of his routines in his mind. Organizing the painful mess of the Archives that his predecessor left behind. Turning down his coworkers’ frequent invitations to go out. Returning to a home that he’s still getting used to with a rambunctious, argumentative flatmate.

He’s bored, he realises. Which is ridiculous, he scolds himself. It’s work; it’s not meant to be fun. But he’s sick of the monotony, sick of the papers, and sick of waiting, every week, for the week to end, only for another to come.

He smacks his hands on the top of his desk, pushes himself up out of his chair, and moves out into the hallway. He doesn’t really know where he’s going— he’s not planning anything or thinking it out for once— but he hears chatter from the break room, Tim’s booming voice carrying through the hall, and finds himself heading that way for what may be the first time in over a year.

He creaks open the door and is instantly hit with a strong wave of some chemical smell.

“Hey, boss!” Tim greets him cheerfully, and Sasha and Martin immediately swivel around to face Jon, the surprise plain on their faces.

Jon wrinkles his nose as the smell’s attack on his senses intensifies when he steps inside the room towards the table they’re gathered around.

“What’s brought you in here today?” Sasha asks. It’s really not like him to join them, especially in the break room, or even for him to take breaks.

“Just…” Jon trails off, searching for the words for that simultaneously overwhelming and underwhelming tide he’d felt earlier. He huffs out a breath, looks around the room. “I just needed… something else,” he finishes.

Sasha nods with a look of understanding, but Martin is studying him carefully. Jon looks down at him, sees his own reflection on Martin’s glasses, and Martin immediately looks away and then jumps out of his seat.

“W-would you like some tea?” he asks, already hurrying over to the wall with the kitchenette.

Tea sounds really good right now. “Yes.”

Tim holds his hands out in Jon’s direction. “Want to join in? We’re all painting our nails the same colour,” Tim explains, light glinting off of the wet purple polish as he waggles his fingers.

Ah. That’s the smell.

“Erm, no, I’m fine.”

“Aw,” Sasha says before reaching out and catching Tim’s hands. “Don’t move so much— you’ll mess them up,” she scolds him.

“Aw,” Tim agrees, settling his hands down flat on the tabletop. “Come on, boss. This is a team bonding activity. Y’know, using purple nail polish to show our Magnus Institute Archival Team solidarity!”

Jon shakes his head. “No, thank you, Tim.” He hasn’t had painted nails since uni. “You… have fun, though.”

"We’re great at that. Alright. Magnus Institute Archival Assistants solidarity, then,” he amends with a show of fake offence.

Sasha grins with Tim before turning back to Jon. “What’s going on with organizing the files that’s been a lot today? Disturbing statement?”

“No.” Jon sighs, running a hand through his dark hair. He’s been getting greyer recently. “More overly intoxicated people with overly active imaginations.”

“Well,” Sasha says, “that’s at least better than the ones that have, like, genuine murder.”

Jon tilts his head in acknowledgement.

“Come on,” Tim chides. “No talking about work during break. Back to the office gossip. Sash, what was that you saying about Elias? You said you found out something about him being a pothead?”

“Oh my god,” Sasha says, straightening up in her seat as she remembers some exciting tidbit.

Their conversation resumes, interrupted briefly when Tim elbows over the bottle of nail polish, and Jon hovers awkwardly over the table, elbow resting on the chair Martin had been sitting on, not sitting down despite the vacant fourth seat. He hears their conversation, not quite listening until he’s startled by a loud “here”, as though the word had been repeated at increasing volume until it caught his attention. Jon snaps out of his haze to see Martin holding out tea for him.

“Oh,” he says, reaching for the cup. “Thank you, Martin.”

“Sure,” Martin replies. He stands there, hesitating over something. “Um, did— did you want to sit down?” He gestures to the seat he’d occupied earlier, where his own cup of tea had been placed earlier.

“Oh!” Jon exclaims again, pulling his arm back and off of Martin’s chair. “No, I’ll just… I should go back to work.”

“I didn’t mean—” Martin begins.

“No, no. There are lots of files to get through.”

“Yeah. God, what was up with Gertrude anyway?” Tim asks. “How’d it even get like this?”

“Good to see you in here,” Sasha says to Jon before replying to Tim.

“Yeah, see you, boss!” Tim says, and their casual chatter starts back up.

“Bye, Jon,” Martin says, lifting one hand.

He nods to his assistants and heads back to his office.

The sight of the room and the files, combined with the nail polish smell lingering in his nose give Jon a headache, but he takes a sip of his tea and feels a little better, at least for now.


	2. Kind of Different Today

When Jon returns to the flat that night, he almost falls almost immediately. He throws out a hand against the wall to hold himself up but drops his bag in the process, and papers spill out across the floor.

He looks behind him to see what he’d tripped on and finds them: Melanie’s boots, the thick, "stompy", black pair she’d wear whilst out “ghost hunting”, resting right in the centre of the entryway.

He scowls at the offending objects as he bends down to gather the papers, then bats at the shoes out of spite. He narrows his eyes as one of them wobbles but rights itself with its own weight.

No. No, it’s fine. Today was mentally draining, but he’s fine. If he's completely honest with himself, well, taking a break, just listening in on friendly, familiar chatter, instead of staring at the accounts of distressed strangers, had helped him a little bit. Maybe.

Jon picks up the boots and moves them out of the way, puts them on the shoe rack, that thing they’d bought to put shoes, where shoes are actually meant to go.

He straightens up, slips out of his own shoes, places them very deliberately on the shoe rack, and heads to the kitchen to wash his hands.

It’s quiet, save for the noise that filters in from the street, the hum of household appliances, and the run of the faucet. Melanie’s normally got music playing, too loudly, from one of her myriad of Spotify playlists she crafts for dozens of occasions that never occur. She's got one called "Songs to devise a Loch Ness Monster hoax to".

He calls out, just to see: “Hello? Melanie?”

No answer.

He doesn’t put on music of his own, preferring today to just take in the city sounds for a bit, but finds himself humming as he gets out of his work clothes and showers.

Jon usually sits and reads after work, sometimes just goes to bed straight after dinner, but tonight, the thought of more reading makes him antsy.

He collapses onto the sofa, sits up, adjusts a cushion behind him and sinks back down, sits up again to readjust it, and then gets up entirely.

He flutters around the flat, walking up to various shelves and adjusting things, sliding books around so their spines all line up, tilting Melanie’s photo frames just so. Jon’s holding one of them, of Melanie with one arm slung around someone, both of them wearing _Ghost Hunt UK_ shirts, grinning and flipping off the camera, when he hears the door open.

Melanie comes in then. “Hey,” she says, glancing over at him. She kicks off her shoes, a pair of scuffed high-tops, and leaves them right where Jon had tripped over her boots earlier.

“Hey!” she says again, this time with irritation, rushing over when she notices what he’s holding. She pulls it out of his grasp, frowns at the photo, and sets it facedown on the shelf.

He grimaces.

“Don’t touch my stuff.”

“I—” Jon begins, starting to defend himself or argue, but he’s honestly just not up for it now. “Okay.”

She squints at him, then heads for the kitchen.

“I am starving,” she announces. “Did you eat yet?”

He shakes his head even though her back is towards him. She doesn’t turn around or ask again despite not seeing his response, just pulls open the fridge, fishes out a Tupperware with leftover pasta, and sticks the whole thing in the microwave.

The microwave will go off in a minute, but she leaves the kitchen anyway, falling dramatically onto the sofa and then scrolling through her phone.

“Get that for me?” Melanie asks with a feigned innocence when the microwave beeps.

Jon rolls his eyes but retrieves it anyway.

“Oh, and a fork!” Melanie adds.

He grabs two, then takes the container, sits down at the table, and starts eating.

Melanie looks up at him from her phone when he doesn’t deliver the pasta straight to her like he’s her butler or something and says, pointedly and with as much emotion can be packed into the syllable: “Bruh.”

She huffs out a breath that sets her bangs floating adrift but then joins him at the table.

“What’s up with you?” she asks in between bites.

He raises his eyebrows as if he’s not sure what she’s referring to, but he knows. He’s off today, somehow. Not even in a bad way, necessarily.

“You just seem kind of different today.”

Jon pauses in his chewing, considering. “Am I acting differently?”

“No… I dunno. God.” She makes a face. "Forget it."

They don’t talk for the rest of their meal, but that's not unusual. When they do occasionally eat together— well, when they happen to eat at the same time— their conversations are made up of Melanie complaining about something and Jon replying with some comment that Melanie takes offence to.

Really, their bickering’s lost some of its heat over time. It’s just routine; that’s just how they communicate now. There’re no hard feelings over any of it. At least, that’s what he thinks, by this point. Maybe she’s been harbouring accumulating grudges, who knows. That… seems kind of likely, actually.

But tonight, she washes her own dishes, and then even his, so they must be fine.

Jon’s feeling kind of on edge, yet somehow amicable. He wants something, suddenly almost buzzing with the realisation, but he’s just not sure _what_.

So later, when Melanie asks him to get her some yoghurt— she eats it frozen from those tubes they make for children— he agrees without argument and opens the freezer, not remembering until it’s too late and an avalanche of dinosaur nuggets falls on him.

He shoves them back inside, taking the time to stack them on a shelf like a normal, sensible adult human being.

“Real nice,” he says to her when she cackles at him from behind her phone, then shouts: “Are you _filming_ this?”

“I should’ve!” she exclaims. She shakes her head, partially at herself in the loss of what could’ve been a great video and partially in answer to his outraged question, sending her blue hair flying around her. “But no. I honestly forgot about that.”

“You are a child,” he tells her, but he chucks a yoghurt tube in her direction nonetheless, and she catches it out of the air, still laughing.

“Says you,” she says, and she’s right. For all his scoffing at her dinosaur nuggets, cookie dough, and yoghurt tubes, he eats Honey Monster Puffs almost every night as dessert. He’d tried to hide it, initially, but just a week after they’d moved in together, she caught him eating them in the dark at 3 am when she’d come out from her room in search of her laptop charger. And he knows that she knows he sometimes sneaks some of her snacks.

He takes a yoghurt for himself in retaliation and brings it with him into his bedroom, making a point to slam his door shut, and he hears Melanie laughing at him from the sofa.

***

He falls asleep right away that night but wakes up just a few hours later and lies there, staring up at the ceiling. He normally tries to wait in the dark for the sleep to return, not getting up or checking the clock or doing anything that will make him lose any of his "tired", but after maybe 15 minutes of trying and failing, he gets out of bed.

After getting some water, he pauses by Melanie’s door. She’s usually up late, staring at her laptop for hours, and now, soft music is seeping under her door, but her room is otherwise quiet.

The hallway light is still on because of course Melanie didn't turn it off. Jon flicks the switch down and can see from the edges of the door that Melanie’s room is dark.

He fetches the duvet from his room and drags it over to the sofa before lying down, shifting beneath it to get comfortable, and eventually drifts off.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> they don’t wear shoes inside because that’s gross. don’t do it, folks!


	3. Surprisingly Comfortable

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you again for reading and for the kudos and especially the comments! i really did not expect anyone to read this at all. i'll have to actually start editing carefully now. please excuse any typos, though. i reread and found a whole bunch in the 2 chapters i posted yesterday. they should all be gone now? everything is fine!!!

Jon does not make it back to the break room the next day. He does, however, walk a few laps around his office, which is more of a break than he usually gives himself. 

It’s not like he wants to go in there. He thinks about it, sure, but he's at work, where work is the priority, and he has a lot to do. Fifty-year-old pieces of paper wait for no man.

When Martin shows up to his office with tea, it’s not like he comments about Jon not showing up to the break room as if he’d expected Jon to return and was disappointed or anything.

It takes Jon a surprising amount of restraint to not down the tea in one go, and once he’s sipped the cup empty, he gets up and paces some more.

***

He’s meant to be doing work, Jon reminds himself the next day as he pauses with his hand on the door handle. He’s got statements to read and files to organise. Taking a break would be a waste of time. He resigns himself back to his desk, sits down, and picks up a file.

The words swim in front of his eyes. He cups his hands around his eyes to focus. It really does kind of help. He starts recording on his computer, clears his throat. 

“Statement of Jennifer Ling, regarding…” He skims over the paper. “A… live musical performance. Really?”

For a moment, he just stares at his frowning reflection in the computer screen, then he sets the file down and pauses the recording.

Why is this so difficult today? Oh, what, he realised he’s bored, and now he can’t manage to read?

He reaches for the file again, intending to restart, when he hears a thump and a shriek.

The sounds aren't too alarming, all things considered. The shriek didn’t sound distressed— it could’ve been excited, even— but the noise did seem like it came from the direction of the break room. And, well, he’s the boss around here, isn’t he? He should go check. It’s his job.

Jon gets up, makes it halfway down the hallway, and then there’s another shriek and another crashing sound, followed by several more yelps. He's getting genuinely concerned now and hurries over, pulling open the door, not quite sure what to expect inside.

Inside, Tim and Sasha are lying in a tangled heap on the floor, shaking with laughter. Martin’s watching them, smiling, from his seat at the table.

Sasha notices him first. “Jon! Hi! Did you come in about the crash?” She rises to her feet. “Sorry about that,” she adds with a laughing cough.

“Hey! Welcome back!” Tim exclaims. He turns to Sasha, clasps her extended hand. “Maybe he’s here because of the shouting.”

“Yeah, _your_ shouting,” Sasha says, pulling Tim up.

“I shouted because you dropped me.”

“I only dropped you because you shouted in my ear!”

“Of course I shouted! You smacked me into the fridge!”

Tim and Sasha continue arguing, but both of them are grinning.

Jon watches them, kind of amused, kind of annoyed, and kind of getting a headache, until he realises Martin’s now watching him and looks over. Martin startles.

“Um, sorry about the noise. We didn’t mean to disturb you,” he says, even though it's quite clear Martin was not a major contributor to said noise.

“I'm not here to tell you off, just to see what had happened.” Tim and Sasha quiet down to hear their conversation, so Jon adds, “I did hear both the crashing and the shouting.”

“Both your fault,” Sasha whispers, elbowing Tim, who lets out a single, dumbfounded laugh.

“Stay for a bit, boss!” Tim says, when he turns to leave. “We know you could use it.”

He really could. He takes a seat this time, and Tim and Sasha make their way over, too.

When they've all gotten settled, Martin nudges a cup of tea over to Jon. “Here.”

It’s a full cup, and the rim is clean, not drinken from. On the table, Jon counts a total of four cups. An unintentional “oh?” slips out as he picks it up.

Martin's eyes widen, and he suddenly stares at the wall across the room. “I, um, didn’t know if you’d come in here today, so I just made you a cup and figured I’d bring it to you later if you didn’t.” He turns back to Jon suddenly, makes a moment of eye contact, then looks at his ear. “It might have gotten too cold, though. Sorry. I didn’t think of that. I can, er—” He reaches for the cup.

“It’s fine, Martin,” Jon insists, taking a sip. “It’s… rather good, actually.” It's tepid but exactly as sweet as he likes it.

“O-oh,” Martin says, facing the wall again.

***

Jon’s sat in his room that evening, muttering at his computer. 

The conversation in the break room earlier, which was really just Tim and Sasha's conversation that Martin occasionally contributed to and Jon just listened to, had turned to taking breaks and then shifted to them chatting about suggestions for relaxation. Jon has no interest in kayaking (which Tim had volunteered) and he can’t bear the thought of more reading (Martin had suggested poetry— and also tea, but Jon drank quite a bit at the office already). Sasha had mentioned mindfulness exercises, and though Jon’s sceptical, it’s not like anyone will know if he tries it, he does trust Sasha— she seems to be on top of things, generally— and he really does need to be able to focus again.

His computer won’t pull open YouTube, though. He types it into the search bar over and over, but the only that shows up on his screen is a pixelated dinosaur.

If the purpose of this is to destress, it isn’t working. Jon starts to x-out of the browser but is reminded of how he’d been sat at his computer screen in the office earlier and sighs.

“Melanie?” he calls out, immediately regretting it. She doesn’t need to know about his attempt at mindfulness or his technological ineptitude. She makes fun of him enough as is.

It’s too late, though. She swings his door open and plops down on his bed, not hesitating to make herself comfortable, even though he thinks this may be the first time she’s really been in his room since they’ve fully moved in. She’s also holding a cup of water that he eyes warily as it sloshes dangerously with her movement.

“What?” she asks.

He just moves to the side so she can see his computer. “YouTube won’t open.”

She holds up her phone with the screen turned out to show him a video playing. “Works fine for me.”

Jon huffs. “Well.”

Melanie snorts, then sets the cup down on the bed and instructs it, out loud, to “stay”, keeping her hand hovering over it until it seems to be stable. She moves up behind him, only glancing at his screen for a second before announcing, “You’re not connected to Wi-Fi.”

“What?” Jon frowns.

“Here,” Melanie says, shouldering him aside.

Jon sits back in his chair while she clicks around, but nearly startles out of his seat when she suddenly yells: “What the hell?” She whips around to face him with a look like he’s betrayed her deeply.

“Jesus Christ,” Jon breathes, hand flying up to his chest to calm his racing heart. “What?”

“You have connection in here!” She picks up her phone and waves it around. “I get three bars in my room and two in the living room while you’ve got full fucking connection and don’t even know how to use it!”

They don’t have a router, but they do have Wi-Fi. Someone in their building has one without a password. Melanie practically lives online, so she’s screwed if their unknowingly benevolent neighbour thinks to put a password on it or moves out. And if that happens, leaving Melanie to find alternate sources of entertainment and free to wreak havoc on their flat, Jon’s screwed too.

“Uh.”

She glares at him, then sits back on his bed. “What are you trying to watch anyway? You refused to watch _Gho_ — uh, my show because you’re too much of a pretentious dickhead to watch YouTube or whatever.”

It was really the ghosts and the fact that she’s in it that made him have no interest in _Ghost Hunt UK_ , but he just says, “That’s all I needed. Goodbye,” and gestures to the door.

She narrows her eyes at him. “I just helped you! You’ve been living it up in here with your full connection and surprisingly comfortable bed! What kind of gratitude is this?”

He thinks that maybe her lying on his bed and yelling at him should cancel out the technological assistance, but he forces out a “thanks”, and then even more reluctantly explains, "I was going to watch a mindfulness video. It’s, uh, supposed to help with relaxation.”

“Oh. You definitely need that,” she says, then takes a very intentional sip from her cup.

Jon ignores that comment and scrolls through some thumbnails before pulling up a video titled “5, 4, 3, 2, 1 Mindfulness”.

It starts off with a low wailing sound that Melanie snorts at, and then a monotone voice speaks.

“Close your eyes.”

He does.

“Sit up straight. Take a deep breath.”

Jon tries to tune out his surroundings, but though he hears Melanie inhale, slow and measured as if she’s also following along, her video is still playing, the sounds of gunshots and peals of laughter ringing out from her phone. What on earth was she watching? Actually, Jon doesn't want to know.

“Now,” the voice continues, “focus on five things that you see.”

Right, Jon thinks. Five things…

Melanie bursts out laughing, destroying Jon's concentration, and he whirls around, eyes flying open.

She’s hanging dangerously near the edge of the bed. “How— how are you supposed to, to see five things,” she says between gasps of laughter, “with your eyes closed?”

“I—” Jon begins, then realises, breathes out a laugh himself. “I don’t know.”

Melanie rolls to the side, clutching her stomach, then tumbles onto the floor.

“Shut up. Your bed's all lumpy because you've got so many pillows!” she complains when Jon snickers at her. She pats violently at the water she’s spilt on herself.

After their laughter dies off, there’s a silence between them, and the only sounds in the room are both of their videos still playing. They look at each other awkwardly for a moment before Melanie lets out a “Welp! You're welcome, then!” and ducks out.

Jon closes the video, rolls his shoulders, and gets up to turn off the lights and go to bed but then sees that Melanie’s left behind not only a puddle of water, but also her cup. He wrinkles his nose at it but picks it up anyway.

Jon washes the cup, towel-dries it, and puts it away, even though they have a dish rack. After he's fetched a towel and wiped up the spill, he lies down in bed. It really is quite comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> no offence to anyone that actually does mindfulness exercises, but i find them hilarious.
> 
> also, the statement being grifter’s bone (42) isn’t actually relevant here.


	4. A Responsible Adult

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> new chapter! and new title! i’m not sure how relevant it will stay, but it does seem to fit. it’s also stupid, so, naturally, i think it’s funny.

The thing about the Magnus Institute is that even beyond the statements and the difficulties Jon’s been having recently, the work is exceedingly dull. 

He’d stopped by the break room again today, but Sasha was out sick and Martin was out scurrying around London looking to follow up with a statement giver, so it’d just been Tim in there. Tim didn’t have Sasha there to gossip with, so Jon had to actually participate in the conversation, rather than just lurk and listen with a cup of Martin’s tea to keep him grounded.

Tim’s _good_ at social interactions, though, so despite that Jon had only just poked his head into the room, he’d ended up staying for a while. Jon can’t name a single thing they’d talked about. Working here? Jon might’ve even mentioned something about himself. Against all odds, Jon wasn’t the one who ended the surprisingly amusing conversation, but when Tim excused himself with a wink and an explanation that he had “something to give” to some filing clerk, Jon was left alone in the room and suddenly felt the rush of all the energy he’d used draining out of his body.

On top of that, Jon had been called to talk with Elias earlier, who asked vague questions whilst giving him pointed looks, and Jon hmm-ed his way through the meeting, not knowing what any of it meant.

Jon returns home wanting nothing more than to get out of his work clothes, take a shower, and lie down.

It’s gone six, and Melanie might be out. Jon doesn’t really know her schedule or what she even does during the day. He doesn't see her at her usual spot on the sofa, and there’s no music blaring from her room.

He peers in on the way to his own room, but it’s dark inside. Though she could very easily be hidden from view if she’s in bed. 

They have opposite beds, Jon and Melanie. His is easily made, requiring just a float up and down of his single blanket, which he uses year-round. He does, however, have five pillows: two set across the top, two propped up against the headboard, and one that he keeps lying vertically next to him. Melanie’s bed is more of a nest. She uses one pillow, which is actually a cushion she took from the living room sofa, that is buried somewhere among the half dozen blankets strewn across her bed. 

Jon hadn’t bothered to turn on the lights when he came in, and the evening light from the window doesn’t stretch all the way down the hall to his room, so when he notices the light slipping through the crack of his bedroom door, he freezes.

Jonathan Sims is a money-conscious, environmentally-aware, responsible adult. He does not leave the lights on when he’s not in. Maybe it’s just a trick of the light. He’s fairly certain he didn’t forget. The lights could be malfunctioning. It’s possible, but is that really more likely than there being an intruder in his room? He takes a step back, quietly. Oh, God, what should he do? Would it be better to force the door open to surprise and scare the intruder or to sneak up behind them? With one hand, Jon grips the strap of his bag tightly, as if that would protect him. He reaches out the other, shaky with nerves, and places it on the door handle, willing himself to somehow gain the courage to open it.

It’s only because he’s being intentionally quiet that he hears the chuffed noise that comes from inside, but he jumps at the sound, and in his flailing, he swings the door open and lets out a squawking sound that he’d be embarrassed over if he weren’t so startled.

Inside his room, Melanie shrieks, and had she not been sitting sideways on the desk chair with her knees hooked over the armrest, she surely would have fallen off of it.

Melanie recovers from the jump scare faster than he does. Or maybe it’s just that her knee jerk reaction is one of aggression.

“What are you doing here?” she demands, though she’s the one lounging around in his room.

“What am I—?” Jon sputters. “This is my room! What are _you_ doing here?” He takes a few marching steps inside and looks around. Everything appears to be intact.

She lifts her laptop off his desk and gives it a little shake in his direction. “Using the good Wi-Fi.” She doesn’t even have the decency to look remotely ashamed about it.

Really, he’s not bothered by it. Melanie’s attitude towards his ownership of his stuff is an annoyance, sure, and would be concerning if he owned anything of monetary or sentimental value, but he doesn’t. It’s not like he can talk anyway, with his frequent consumption of her snacks.

Melanie turns back to her screen, deliberately ignoring him, and Jon sighs loudly as he digs around for some clothes.

“You’d better be out when I get back,” he calls, heading out to the bathroom.

She’s still there when he returns, of course, huffing out laughter at whatever she’s watching. Jon, freshly showered, goes over to look at her screen. He squints at it, not quite sure what he’s seeing. A tall figure with a long, trailing cape walking through what looks like a grocery store?

“Stop breathing,” Melanie says after a moment of him hovering over her shoulder.

Jon startles upright, affronted. “What?”

She glances up at him, rolls her eyes. “You breathe so noisily. I can’t hear.” 

Jon is too tired for this. “Fine,” he says. He walks backwards towards the door but doesn’t leave. It’s definitely a store onscreen. The caped figure is pulling stuff off of a shelf.

Melanie swivels around in the chair, sees Jon still lingering. “Here,” she says, gripping the desk and pushing herself off to the side so he can see. “ _What We Do in the Shadows_. I’m rewatching it, so it’s episode one, too.”

Jon scoffs or maybe laughs, but he sits down on the corner of his bed closest to his desk and leans in.

He doesn’t complain when the desk chair squeaks with her constant swivelling back and forth. She even starts the video over for him. It’s funny. He can’t recall the last time he watched a fictional TV show, especially one he laughed at, if ever. 

He kicks her out for real after the one episode ends, and she puts on a big show of grumbling but leaves and even takes the time to close the door quietly— _quietly!_ — behind her.

***

So, maybe Jonathan Sims isn’t fully a responsible adult. He does not know how to cook. 

He doesn’t really eat much in general. He orders takeaway sometimes, but he doesn’t get to eat much of it since Melanie usually finishes his leftovers. They have no shortage of snacks in their flat, but actual food that requires some level of culinary skill? Well. Hm.

Jon makes basic foods for himself, usually things like eggs or toast, and he’ll even make a curry or pasta when he can muster up the energy. 

But in general, no, Jon does not know how to cook. Even more, Jon does not know what kind of food to cook for an office brunch potluck.

Tim and Sasha had been arguing over the best method to prepare eggs for breakfast: scrambled or omelette or boiled— and for how long— or sunny side up or poached ( _“No one prefers poached eggs.”_ _“Some people do!”_ _“Tim, name literally one person.”_ ), which led to the birth of this bonding activity/challenge. Martin had said, “Yeah, that sounds nice!”, and everyone was on board and looked at Jon so damn _expectantly_ , and he wasn’t able to back out.

Jon enlisted Melanie’s help, though in hindsight, she’s more of a hindrance. She didn’t share his feelings of anguish when he told her the situation and instead laughed at his struggle, but he’d figured that she has more of a social life than him and would have a better idea of what to do.

Melanie had managed to convince him that soufflé pancakes were a good idea, delighted at the concept after seeing them online, despite that they have neither culinary experience nor an electric mixer.

She flicks through her phone, calling out different ingredients and instructions and motioning Jon away when he tries to glance at the recipe to double-check. It's not that he doesn't trust her, but... actually, yeah, no, he doesn't.

By the time that Jon gets his own phone out, badgers Melanie into sending him the link to the recipe, and pulls it up, the egg yolks, sugar, flour, baking powder, and vanilla have already been mixed until fully combined, and his arm is aching from his attempt to whip twelve egg whites to stiff peaks by hand. By the time Jon reads the very first line on the page, he knows that the recipe they’d been using makes far too many pancakes for a breakfast for four.

He rereads it several times. “Melanie King.”

“Hm?”

“24 servings?” is all he can get out.

She looks up then, sees the bowl nearly overflowing with batter. “Oh, shit. What?"

He wordlessly hands his phone to her, and she takes it, then scans the screen, clearly not registering what she’s supposed to be seeing.

Jon reaches over and zooms into the line: _Makes 24 servings._ It really is very clear.

Her eyes widen. “Uh. My bad.” She passes the phone back and slowly backs out of the kitchen.

Jon looks at the bowl and silently screams. Then he goes to lie down on the sofa.

Melanie, to her credit, does come back after a few minutes. Jon doesn’t get up, but he hears her clanging around in the kitchen.

Eventually, he gets up to find Melanie eating what does appear to be a mildly successful soufflé pancake, though it isn't nearly as fluffy as the one in the photo Melanie had so enthusiastically shown him earlier. There are five more on a plate on the table, which is splattered with batter. 

“It’s pretty good,” Melanie says through a mouthful of pancake when he wanders over, bleary-eyed.

There’s still a pan on the stove, and the whisk and measuring cups are in the sink.

"Regardless of the taste, these things aren't worth it, though." Melanie gestures vaguely to the dishes and counter.

Jon does not see the bowl or the eighteen servings worth of batter that presumably remains. Maybe less, since there's at least three servings worth spread around the kitchen. He glances around for them.

“Don’t look in the fridge,” Melanie warns, noticing.

Jon opens the fridge. Ah, there they are. Right in front of him, dribbling onto the fridge shelf. He shuts the fridge shortly and turns back around, tries to smile. Maybe he should be angry at her, but six pancakes are better than no pancakes, and he thinks of scooping up batter to put on a pan, standing over them and waiting for them to brown as heat drifts and oil splatters up into his face and does feel grateful. No pancakes would probably be better than six pancakes plus several extra cups of batter, though.

“Pancake?” Melanie holds the plate up to him.

He picks one up, takes a hesitant bite, chews. It is pretty good.

Melanie reaches out and snags another with her fork. 

He shouts out a moment too late. “I need to bring those to the brunch,” Jon says, wincing. He feels like he's got pancake stuck in his throat.

Melanie removes her fork, leaving four clearly visible holes in the pancake. “Oh, yeah. The brunch. Oops.”

They both stare at it for a moment. They do not look at each other. Their clock is very loud. Doesn't Melanie usually have music playing?

“Make more? Plenty of batter," she offers eventually.

Jon would sit down if he wasn't sitting already. “No, thank you.”

She watches him as she spears it again, and both of them are quiet.

After pancake number four is eaten, Melanie gets up, tries to scoop up handfuls of batter off of the table with her hands and deposit them in the sink, but Jon stays seated, stares at the remaining three, and regrets his life.

Melanie clears her throat. Jon looks up. Batter is dripping off of her hands right back onto the table she's trying to clean.

“Just bring orange juice.” She shrugs. "To brunch."

This suggestion couldn’t have come up three hours and a dozen eggs ago?

“We did brunch at work all the time, and that’s what I always did,” she adds, licking a glob of raw pancake batter off her finger.

Jon stares at her silently for several beats before going back to lie down on the sofa.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> accidentally making 28 servings of pancakes for 4 people is an actual thing i have done irl. and speaking of mistakes, please pretend wwdits came out in 2016.


	5. Odd

As it turns out, Sasha was absolutely correct.

“Why is it so _sour_?” Sasha asks after swallowing a bite of poached egg.

Tim frowns. He’s already finished his own. “I used vinegar water.”

Sasha scrunches her face up to an impressive degree. 

“You’re supposed to! It helps the whites not get all wispy.” Tim slaps his hand against his knee. “It’s good!” He looks around the table to Martin and Jon for support. 

“No,” Jon says.

Tim shakes his head in disappointment, and Sasha nods sagely. 

They all turn to Martin then, who is very carefully observing his fork. He drags the prongs across his plate, painting four streaks of yolk, and winces when the metal squeals against the surface.

“Martin,” Tim prompts, and Martin flushes. “What do you think? You’re on team poached egg, yeah?” 

Martin’s plate, which had previously held a scoop of scrambled eggs, part of an omelette, two boiled egg halves, a piece of a sunny side up egg, and a poached egg, currently only has a poached egg— minus one bite— left.

“Um,” says Martin. “I think I prefer the others.”

Tim sits back in his chair, throwing his hands up dramatically. “Aw!”

“No, no, I didn’t _not_ like it!” he says quickly, though his plate indicates otherwise.

“Martin, no," Sasha cuts in. "Don’t just say that to make him feel better. Let him deal with being wrong and suffer.”

“Wow,” Tim says, folding his arms. “Harsh. But I won’t suffer because I’m not wrong and how could I be suffering when I have poached eggs?”

“It’s…” Martin trails off, his mouth twisting to the side as he thinks. “Well, it’s just that it’s a bit… raw.”

“It _is_!” Sasha exclaims, leaning across the table with her hand extended out towards Martin for a high five, which he returns lightly after a quick, apologetic glance at Tim. “It’s literally just a sour raw egg that takes extra work.”

“That’s why it’s good— runny yolk! Eat it with the bread; it’s better. And also, the sunny side up eggs have runny yolks, and you all liked those!”

“Because those aren’t as snot-like,” Sasha counters.

Jon snorts without meaning to.

“ _Snot-like_?” Tim repeats, indignant.

The rest of the brunch potluck continues similarly. They all vote for their favourite eggs, and aside from Martin, who preferred the omelette, they all choose scrambled. ( _“I said poached eggs are good, not that they’re my favourite,”_ Tim says to Sasha’s triumphant accusation.)

Tim also brought the scrambled eggs anyway, so he declares himself the “winner of office brunch” and says his prize is getting the day off.

“Maybe your prize will be getting fired,” Jon drawls, and everyone laughs. He sits back and feels something settling inside him, a fondness or… warmth of sorts. Or maybe it’s just the poached egg.

He’d worried earlier. When he came in, Martin was at the sink washing his hands and Sasha was placing dishes of three types of eggs on the table, which also had several kinds of fruit, cups of steaming tea, and a jug of orange juice, which looked fresh-squeezed.

Jon stared and clutched his own store-bought orange juice carton dumbly. Yet still, Sasha smiled warmly at him. Also, Martin went “oh!” and “heh”, and gestured to the jug on the table, but Jon didn’t know what that meant.

He stood there, unmoving, unable to decide if he regretted not bringing the pancakes. 

He did when, after Tim arrived, they’d all sat around the table just looking at the abundance of eggs, fruit, tea, and orange juice. But then Sasha stood up, found the bag of bread they keep in the break room, and stuck several slices in the toaster.

Their lack of planning on who was to bring what probably says something about their coordination and the state of the Archives. Perhaps their comments about Gertrude have been somewhat hypocritical. 

Now, Jon holds his cup of tea, most of the tension gone from his shoulders. It’s odd. He can't pinpoint the moment when that happened.

It’s getting close to time to work, though Jon’s often already at the Institute by this time anyway, and Martin stands and begins collecting plates.

Sasha jumps up too, stacks the cups, and follows Martin to the sink. The two of them do the washing up whilst talking quietly. Tim picks up the food left over and carries it to the fridge, joining in their conversation.

Jon doesn’t see anything left to do. The sink is crowded, and the table is cleared. He stands, feeling useless, then pushes in his chair. He circles the table and does the same for Tim’s. Martin and Sasha both tucked in their own. 

He stares at the clock for a few beats, debating whether or not he should say something before going to his office. Saying goodbye would be weird. Right? It’s not like he’s really leaving. Yeah, he won’t say anything, he decides, and heads towards the door.

“Stop!” Sasha yells suddenly, and Jon freezes in his tracks, then slowly turns towards her, but it’s Tim she’s looking at in horror.

“What?” Tim says. 

“How could you?” she demands. “First the poached eggs and now this?” She lunges towards him and yanks a banana he’s bitten out from his hand.

“ _What_?” Tim says again.

“You eat them upside down?” She makes a show of flipping it over, the peels flapping around as she does, and waves it at him.

“You’re getting soap on it!” Tim protests, reaching for his banana back. “And you’re supposed to peel them from the bottom."

Sasha looks at him incredulously. “Did you hear yourself just now? _‘From the bottom,’_ you said. _‘The bottom.’_ You _know_ that it’s wrong!” She turns to Martin. “I’m so sorry on his behalf. You so kindly brought fruit for everyone, and he’s doing that.”

Martin chuckles. “Nah, that’s fine!” He pauses, pushes his glasses up even though his hand is sudsy. “Erm, I actually eat them from that side too.”

“You do?" Sasha asks, nose wrinkling.

"Yeah," Martin says. "Then you don't get strings and you get the little handle to hold.” He smiles sheepishly.

Sasha gapes at him, then whirls around towards Jon. “Please tell me you don’t do that.”

“I don’t,” Jon says. He starts towards the door again.

“ _Thank you_.” She faces Tim and Martin in turn. “Listen to your boss.” 

“It’s not like I bit it through the skin,” Tim says, rolling his eyes. “Alright, fine. Next brunch will just be the proper ways to eat fruit.”

Next brunch? Jon turns the door handle a little too hard.

***

Melanie’s left her shoes as a fire hazard again, but Jon steps over them this time. 

The Admiral makes his way over to Jon and rubs against his leg. He reaches down to pet the cat. They’re catsitting for Georgie while she’s gone back to Liverpool for the weekend. Their building doesn't actually allow pets, but the Admiral isn't _their_ pet, and neither of them particularly give a shit about rules.

Melanie isn’t in his room today. She’s lying on the sofa, and she’s got some music on, but it’s not what she usually listens to. It’s weirdly calming, unlike her usual music, and makes Jon feel as though he’s, like, drifting through a waterfall on a cloud.

Her eyes are closed, so he tries to move quietly, but when he glances at her again, she’s watching him from under a pile of blankets she must’ve brought over from her bed.

“How was work?” she asks, and Jon frowns. It was fine, but they’ve got an unspoken agreement where they discuss their actual lives, especially their jobs— well, Jon’s job.

“Alright,” he says cautiously, and changes directions towards her. The Admiral follows him.

“Brunch?” she asks when he doesn’t elaborate.

“Oh.” He sits on the sofa, a careful distance from her feet. “It was fine.”

Melanie shifts, curling up further. "Admiral," she coos, patting the space beside her.

The cat settles in Jon’s lap, and she frowns at both of them.

“You didn’t take the pancakes with you so I ate them.”

“Okay,” Jon says, though he’d kind of wanted another.

In the silences that stretch between them, the music seems strange to him. It's the same song that's been playing the whole time he's been in. It sounds sort of blurred, doesn’t have any words, and feels as if it could continue forever. 

He reaches towards Melanie’s laptop on the coffee table, making sure to not disturb the Admiral. He’s right. The video playing is titled “ _Avatar: The Last Airbender_ \- _Safe Return_ | 10 Hour Loop”. Jon sits back, turns to Melanie, hesitates.

He’s not sure what to say or what he can say. They don’t usually talk like this, but it seems like something’s wrong, and she asked about him first.”

“Are you… well?” Jon cringes after he says it and immediately looks at the cat in his lap instead. He's easier to face.

“Tell me about brunch,” Melanie insists, ignoring his question.

“Someone else brought orange juice too,” Jon says after a pause. He waits, expecting her to laugh at that, but she just raises her chin at him to go on.

“The point was to decide on the best kind of egg— I told you about that— and scrambled won.”

She's closed her eyes again, and he feels foolish recounting his day like this to her. He's not sure if it's because he's talking about his participation in an egg competition at his workplace or because he's talking to Melanie, who usually makes fun of everything he does.

She nudges him with her foot.

“Er, Tim, one of the assistants, brought poached eggs. He insisted they were good, but no one else liked them, and he and Sasha argued about it.” He looks out the window. It’s early enough for it to still be light out, but the sky is a hazy sort of grey.

“They argue?”

She mumbled it, and it takes a second for his brain to register her words. “Well, yes, quite a bit, actually, but they don't, really. They’re close.”

Melanie hums in reply, and then it’s quiet.

Jon strokes the cat, who purrs his contentment. "They want to have another brunch."

“Must be nice,” Melanie says. “Fun. Having friends at work.” 

“We’re not friends,” Jon says. “Tim and Sasha are.” He considers. “Well, Martin too.”

“It was like that for me.” She blinks. “Before.” She sits up, pushing the heap of blankets aside, and the Admiral leaps off Jon's lap, startled by the motion, and scampers across the room.

They both watch him go, then Melanie scrubs a hand over her face and nudges Jon again, harder this time. It feels more like a kick, but she seems distracted, so maybe she didn’t mean it.

She stands. “By the way, the bowl of pancake batter got knocked over earlier, so that’s spilt all over the fridge.”

Jon kicks her back.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i have never made nor eaten a poached egg, so thank you to my friends and also to backyardchickens.com for describing them to me.


	6. Company

Melanie did indeed finish the pancakes, and there is indeed batter spilt in the fridge, but there’s still a decent amount left in the bowl, maybe eight servings left? 

Jon wipes up the batter and washes the bowl, and when he looks in the fridge again after, it’s pathetically barren. They’ve no food he can eat for dinner. He pulls open the freezer (and nothing falls on him, thank you very much), which is very full but mostly of odd desserts. And dinosaur nuggets, but those are pretty much the only food Melanie stockpiles that Jon won’t touch— they’re weirdly clumpy and stringy— so he pours the pancake batter onto a sheet tray and sticks it in the oven. Pancakes, cakes in pans. Close enough.

He’s not sure how hot or how long to bake it, and he’s not sure what he could search online to find out, so he just twists the dial halfway, then drags a chair over from the table and sets it in front of the oven so he can peek in periodically. 

Melanie doesn’t emerge again. The music is still going— it hasn’t been ten hours yet— and Jon is getting sick of it. Would it be bad if he played his own music? He doesn’t want to bother Melanie, partially because she seemed upset earlier and partially because bothering Melanie could be a risk to his own safety, and he doesn’t want to leave the oven while fetching headphones. 

So he waits, listening to those repeating notes that are no longer calming and now rather make him want to jump off of a waterfall.

The cake isn’t turning brown, but Jon pulls it out anyway. It’s spread out and flat on the pan, but once he’s returned the chair to the table and found a toothpick, it’s started to deflate in the centre. Jon feels the same way.

He pricks the cake with the toothpick, and it comes out clean, so he cuts a slice. It’s significantly worse than the pancakes and somehow doesn’t have the same flavour, and Jon looks at his dinner, a sad beige rectangle, and listens to the dizzying loop of the music and shuts his eyes tightly.

After a moment and a deep breath, he digs around the freezer and finds a bag of frozen peas shoved in the back. He microwaves them, and when he looks at his plate again, it’s worse. Maybe he should go for a walk outside.

Jon tries to banish the thoughts from his mind, finishes his pitiful meal, and cleans up. As he’s drying his plate, the music turns off, and he feels less like he’s suffocating. 

He wouldn’t really have gone out anyway, but he wanders around the flat afterwards. Jon stares out the window for a while, though the view through the window is just the buildings across the street, then looks around the flat. Something catches his eye.

There's an empty space on the shelf. He'd organised those shelves himself and knows what was there: the photo of Melanie and the other _Ghost Hunt UK_ host that she'd set facedown before.

Melanie's other photos all remain, so Jon slides those around to get rid of the gap, then takes several steps back to look, readjusting until they're properly arranged.

The Admiral watches him curiously, and Jon nods his satisfaction with the photo arrangement at the cat.

They’ve been moved in for a while, and they’re all unpacked, but they still have some boxes that stand, flattened, between the sofa and the wall. Don’t cats like boxes?

Apparently not. Not this cat and this box, at least. After Jon pulls one out, sets it up on the floor, and sits cross-legged next to it, the Admiral doesn’t go inside, instead pawing at Jon’s sock.

He’s still in his work clothes, even though he normally showers and changes straight away when he gets home, so after a few minutes of sitting with the Admiral, he gives him a final head rub and gets up.

When he’s done in the bathroom, he pauses in front of Melanie’s door. It’s closed and silent, but the light is on. They’ve developed a routine in the last few days. Melanie barges into his room some time after they’ve both eaten, and they watch one episode of _What We Do in the Shadows_ together, Melanie in his chair and Jon on the corner of his bed, before he boots her out. He raises his fist to knock but decides against it. She’ll show up if she’s up for it.

In his own room, Jon sits at the bed corner. He'd wanted to watch today. It’d become something of a highlight in his evenings, something reliable to look forward to. But he doesn’t know how to— Melanie gave him some lecture about using Putlocker ( _“Piracy’s only wrong if it’s from independent creators.”_ ) and ad blockers and junk data generation, but he didn’t really follow her whole spiel— and it wouldn’t feel right to watch without her anyway, which, huh. It’s a strange thought.

He flips through some books, not catching any of the words and not really trying to, before lying back on his bed. Though he’s glad the music’s turned off, the quiet is unnerving, and he sort of wants company, so he goes to join the Admiral in the living room again. 

***

Jon lets himself sleep in the next morning, but it’s still a surprise to see Melanie up before him. She’s sitting in the kitchen eating a slice of the cake. Jon stands in the hall, feeling as though going into the kitchen would be crossing some barrier.

“This is kind of gross,” Melanie says, frowning at the cake. “This is the batter, right? You should’ve made more pancakes instead.”

“You could’ve made more pancakes instead,” Jon replies automatically, though she’s right. The pancakes were decent, and the cake’s terrible.

She makes a face at him, then gets up and retrieves a yoghurt from the freezer.

“So,” she says eventually, but doesn’t follow up with anything else. She studies the tube, turning it over in her hands, before setting it aside so she can prop herself up on to the table.

“What?” Jon asks eventually.

“I don’t know.” She runs a hand through her hair and huffs out a noisy breath. “Georgie’s coming back today.”

“Mm.” He looks around for the Admiral but doesn’t see him. He must still be asleep on Jon’s bed.

“She’s staying for dinner when she comes to get the cat. Around seven or so.”

“Alright,” Jon says lightly. He doesn't really know how to talk to Melanie, especially without arguing. He either doesn't talk or complains and insults her, even when he's not being intentionally nasty. But whatever happened with her yesterday is hanging heavily in the air.

“Alright,” Melanie repeats.

They both stare at each other for a moment, then Melanie opens her yoghurt with an unnecessary and uncharacteristic meticulousness. The quiet between them is awkward. They normally don’t talk much. Quiet shouldn’t be weird. 

Jon’s certainly not going to bring up whatever Melanie’s going through, so he just watches her eat yoghurt while she avoids his eyes.

“What’s for dinner?” he asks when the silence becomes unbearable.

“I don’t know!” Melanie jumps down to the floor and crumples the wrapper in a fist, then stares at the remaining yoghurt that got on her hand. 

“Ah.” Jon only says it as a response, for lack of anything better, an acknowledgement of Melanie speaking, but she looks up from her hand to him with widened eyes, and he realises he’s misjudged, though he’s not quite sure how or why.

“Right,” Jon says quickly. He can sense a fight building in her, and it’s not something he wants to stick around for, so he takes a step back, then tugs his shoes on and leaves, careful to not look at her and not let the door slam behind him.

The problem is, he doesn’t have anywhere to go. It’s cold out, too cold to stay outdoors, especially since he didn’t bring a jacket with him. In an effort to keep warm, Jon walks, just to stay moving.

He wasn’t heading anywhere specifically, but he’s somehow not surprised when he finds himself standing outside the Institute. It's not like he ever really goes elsewhere. He lingers in front of the entrance, not wanting to go in and surround himself with stress and work when he doesn’t have to, but he has nowhere else to go, no money on him, no one else will be in now, and he feels colder with each passing second.

Jon walks through the building slowly. He’s never really paid much attention to the rest of the Institute, usually hurrying past people to get to his office, and it feels strange now, taking the time to actually look. He feels sneaky and distinctly like he’s doing something wrong, intruding, as, for the first time, he notices a framed photo on Rosie’s desk and reads the name plates as he walks by doors.

He can hear his footsteps as he makes his way to his office. It’s never taken him this long to walk there. He opens the door and waits for the headache to overtake him, that pressing, rushing tide against his temple, but it never comes. 

At his desk, Jon pushes some papers aside, then sits down on top of it. He’s never done this before, but here he is now, alone at work, perched on the surface and still wearing a t-shirt, and he laughs at himself for his own ridiculous rebellion. Is that what this is? 

He picks up the file he’d moved, and the words stay put on the page, letting him read and understand them for once.

This statement giver was clearly just lost and confused, and though the file was a waste of time, Jon sets it down not with a feeling of annoyance, but of relief.

He looks to his computer and hesitates, as though trying to actually record it will ruin his concentration, but that’s foolish, just like the statement, and Jon finds himself laughing again. He pulls up a new recording and picks the file up, clears his throat.

He's just about to begin, the words "Statement of Andrea Nunis" ready at the tip of his tongue, when he's interrupted by a knock at the door. No one else should be here. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this was not meant to sound like an ominous cliffhanger. i'm just trying to keep all of the chapters a similar length.
> 
> next chapter should be up sooner!


	7. A Chance

Jon’s desk chair, unlike his desk, is meant to be sat on. Also unlike his desk, it’s got armrests on both sides. So when Jon jumps at the interruption, he reaches out to his side for something to steady him, and what he grabs is not a stable armrest but rather his computer.

Fortunately, while both of them take a few wobbling seconds to regain balance, neither of them fall.

The door creaks open, and Jon spins around to see Martin in the doorway.

They blink at each other for a moment, and then Jon jumps down from his desk, extremely aware of himself and his t-shirt, which he now remembers used to belong to Georgie, long ago. His arms feel very cold. 

Martin is inexplicably wearing tartan pyjama bottoms, though, so maybe Jon should not be as embarrassed.

“Er, hello,” Martin says, lifting a hand in a slight wave before grimacing and attempting to disguise his wave as a head scratch. 

“Martin,” Jon exhales. “You’re in pyjamas,” he says, because his renewed ability to read apparently did not come with the ability to hold a normal conversation.

Martin looks down at his clothes, then back at Jon, staring. “You’re in a t-shirt,” he says, then fastidiously looks away, clears his throat. “And sitting on your desk?”

“I didn’t think anyone was here.” Jon finds himself reaching up to scratch his head, unintentionally mirroring Martin’s motions, and quickly picks the file up again to busy his hands.

“Oh,” says Martin, flushing. “Well, I am.”

“Yes,” Jon agrees. His startled, speeding heartbeat has started to calm down, and he’s beginning to be able to actually think again. Perhaps now the conversation can progress past them just stating facts at each other. “Why are you here?” It comes out slightly demanding, and Martin twitches.

“I, um, stay here sometimes. I did when there were those worms at my flat— you know that, of course— and, well, it’s…” He clears his throat again. “Sometimes I prefer to be here. What about you?” 

Martin’s got an awkward smile stretched crookedly across his face, as though he’s admitted to some guilty pleasure or quirk. But saying he’d rather sleep alone at work on the weekend than be in his own home is quite different than peeling bananas upside down, and Jon can’t stop looking at Martin’s pyjamas, tracing the lines of the pattern with his eyes. He feels very sad. He’s not sure what’s causing it, exactly. The fact that he’s here in a similar position to Martin, whom he’s always regarded as a sort of pitiful character, or the fact that Martin’s here in a similar position to him, who ate failed cake and microwaved peas for dinner last night and just now got a thrill from sitting on his desk?

“Er, right. I’ll—” Martin says, starting to shuffle backwards out of the room.

“Oh,” Jon says, snapping back to reality. “Sorry. I—”

“—leave you be,” Martin finishes, though when Jon speaks, he stops moving and looks at him expectantly.

“My flatmate is busy, so I had to leave.” It’s not exactly true, but it’s a good enough explanation.

“You came here to work, then?” Martin asks.

“Well, yes,” Jon says, which is also not exactly true but good enough, and it sounds better than divulging that he’d left his flat in a rush with nowhere else to go since he’s scared of Melanie and of emotions and hardly ever goes anywhere besides work anyway and hasn’t been able to focus so being able to work now is a chance he shouldn’t miss.

He’s definitely the sadder one.

Martin’s smile slips, but he doesn’t press further. “Would you like some tea? Or there’s orange juice?”

“Tea,” Jon says. “Uh, please.”

Martin leaves, and Jon sits back down, in his chair this time. He stops the recording, which he's accidentally left on.

Jon wants to go home. But he doesn’t know if he’s invited for dinner or if dinner is even a thing that’s going to happen. They don’t have food, just his shitty cake, and Melanie doesn’t like to cook or order takeaway herself. Georgie has to stop by since she’s got to pick up the Admiral, but that doesn’t mean she’ll stay, necessarily.

He could text Melanie, he supposes. It’s not like they had a fight. But it would feel weird.

Being here is weird. When he was alone, it felt like he was doing something adventurous. As if actually paying attention to his normal surroundings was something of an exploration and sitting in his office doing work was exciting. Now, knowing Martin's here, he feels exposed, like he’s got a spotlight showcasing just how pathetic his life is, as well as the whole embarrassing series of poor choices he made to get to this point.

He should leave. If he had his wallet, maybe he’d go to the store or go pick up food. But he doesn’t, and now he’s determined to record the statement, and Martin’s making him tea.

He restarts the recording and gets through the whole statement again, which shouldn’t be an accomplishment but is, though he doesn’t feel as accomplished as he expected or felt the first time.

Martin hasn’t returned, so Jon gets up, takes a minute to stretch and rolls his shoulders back, and heads towards the break room.

“Sorry!” Martin exclaims, stirring the cup faster when Jon opens the door. “It’s nearly done, just a second.”

Jon nods. Reading statements always tires him, strains his throat, and the emptiness of the building stands out even more here, compared to the usual working Archives noise level, compliments of Tim. It’s quiet in a way that seems to dare Jon to break it, but Martin doesn't seem to notice.

The spoon clatters as Martin deposits it in the sink, and Jon winces at the sound. He takes the cup from Martin and blows on it gently, but it’s still too hot to drink, so he sets it down carefully and goes to wash the spoon.

“I’ll—” Martin begins, coming over to take the spoon, but Jon shakes his head. “So what was that statement about?" Martin asks as Jon turns the tap on, too strong before he adjusts it. "Will we have lots to follow up on?” 

“Maybe," he replies. He keeps his voice is low, but it sounds louder than Martin's in his ears. “It happened in Italy, though, so follow up will be difficult.”

“Italy!” Martin repeats. “Well, we’ll all look into it. But those are usually harder to find details for.”

“Martin,” Jon says, maybe to quiet him, then realises he didn’t plan anything else to say. He tucks the spoon, clean and dry, back into the drawer, then steps out of the break room. “You’re staying in Document Storage?” he asks, even though he already knows the answer.

“Yeah.” Martin follows Jon out. “Going back to work?”

“Erm.” Is he? Should he? He checks the time, and it’s not yet 4. Jon shrugs. He hates the meaningless gesture, but the meaninglessness seems fitting now. He’ll try, he decides, then gives Martin a terse smile and heads towards his office but turns back when he hears Martin’s footsteps trailing behind him.

Martin freezes and lets out a dry laugh that echoes in the empty hallway. “Right.” He pivots and starts in the direction of the room he’s set up in, and Jon watches him go, feeling oddly dejected.

In his office, Jon drinks his tea slowly, standing and holding the cup with both hands. Once it’s empty, he looks in at the little black flecks and gets a strange urge to join Martin, see the room that he knows from experience that it isn’t an especially nice to stay in because there’s nothing Martin should _prefer_ about it. But Jon sets the cup aside, pulls himself up onto his desk again, and manages to record two(!) more statements.

Neither are particularly unpleasant, but his head feels like it’s buzzing by the end, and a moment later, his phone begins vibrating to match it.

 **Melanie King** (17:14) what’s that thai place u order from and what’s that dish i like?  
 **Melanie King** (17:14) the green one u know  
 **Melanie King** (17:15) actually can you get it

So things must be okay between them. Jon suppresses an eye roll but can’t help the feeling of relief that washes over him. He texts back the names of the restaurant and dish, as well as a “ _Get it yourself_ ”. He takes her demand as his invitation to join in on dinner.

Outside of his office, Jon feels that same pull to find Martin. Saying goodbye would just be showing proper manners. He's taken a few steps towards that room in the Archives when his phone buzzes again. 

**Melanie King** (17:18) no u

Jon does roll his eyes this time, then makes his way home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ..did i get the who/whom right?


	8. Friends?

Jon returns to find the flat filled with the scent of Thai food and the sounds of warm conversation.

Settled neatly on the shoe rack is a pair of clean but well-worn Chelsea boots. Melanie’s shoes also rest on the rack for once, though they seem like they were thrown onto it.

“Jon, hey!” Georgie says when she notices him, pushing her chair back as she stands, then rushes over.

“Hi,” Jon replies as he straightens Melanie’s shoes, then he lines his own beside them. “You’re early. I thought Melanie said seven?”

“Caught an earlier train. You were out? Surprising,” she says, flashing him a smirk. “How’re you doing?” She gives him a few pats on the shoulder and scrunches up her nose. “Nice shirt. Where’d you get it?”

“Ha,” he says, looking down at it. He fiddles with the sleeve for a moment, then taps her hand lightly. “Yeah, I’m alright. Thanks.” Georgie returns to her seat, and he goes to wash his hands, pausing by Melanie when he passes the table. “Got the food yourself, then?”

“Yes, Jon. Thank you so much for your assistance.” She gives him an unamused look that makes the corner of his mouth lift, and he turns away to face the sink.

“You’re welcome. Remembering that ‘the green one’ is called 'green curry' _would_ be a difficult task for you,” he says, taking his usual seat. She and Georgie both seem to be nearly done eating, which he can’t say came as a surprise, as Melanie had texted him a warning earlier ( _“gonna eat without you then”_ ).

Georgie looks between them and smiles, pushing the plastic containers of food in Jon’s direction.

They all sit at the table together, and Georgie’s familiar chatter is effective at subduing the awkwardness Jon feels at being the only one left eating.

At some point later, they migrate over to the sofa, Georgie in the middle and the Admiral curled against Jon’s leg. Only the kitchen light is on, and they’re all tired. Melanie’s resting her head against Georgie’s shoulder, but the two of them keep talking. Melanie wants to hear about Georgie’s trip, and though Georgie pulls Jon into the conversation occasionally, he finds himself zoning out, watching the sky darken behind the city. 

He shifts carefully away from the Admiral, then stands, covers his yawn.

“I should get going,” Georgie says, raising her shoulder slightly to nudge Melanie, who lifts her head but doesn’t otherwise move.

“You should stay,” Melanie says, frowning, then suddenly jumps up. “We have desserts!”

“Desserts?” Jon repeats, raising an eyebrow. “Are you referring to yoghurt tubes or raw cookie dough?”

Melanie sneers. “Oh, right. I’m sure Georgie would rather stay for Honey Monster Puffs and some of your cake.”

“Jon made cake?” Georgie asks, surprised and impressed, as she gets up and scoops the cat into her arms. “And still eats that cereal?" She sounds equally surprised but significantly less impressed by this. "Well, thanks, but I’m still kind of full.”

“A wise decision,” Melanie says, then turns to give Jon an imploring glance. “We could watch something?” Her eyebrows furrow. “I guess we could watch out here, but it’ll probably buffer a lot. It’s just us, though, if that’s okay?”

It catches him a little off guard, Melanie checking with him. “No, that’s fine,” he says after his brain registers her words.

“Yeah?” Melanie asks. They both look at Georgie, who also seems a bit taken aback.

“Oh,” Georgie says. “I’m tired and kind of want to get home. Thank you, though! For dinner and for watching this guy.” She holds the Admiral up and gives him a head scratch. “This was nice.”

And it was. Jon and Melanie follow Georgie to the door, and after she leaves, Melanie joins Jon in his room. They watch one more episode together, and Jon, feeling agreeable in his uncommonly good mood, lets Melanie eat yoghurt in his room. But only because she lets him have one, too.

***

The second office brunch potluck, held the next week, is also the last. 

The theme had shifted from fruit to any foods that people eat “incorrectly”, meaning that the nutritional value of the meal went down the toilet, as they all ate chocolate bars and cheese strings ( _“Neither of which you should be biting, Tim!”_ ) for breakfast.

They did still eat fruit, though, Tim and Martin both eating bananas from the bottom. Tim also brought a bag of clementines. He took one, peeled off all the skin, and, after getting Sasha’s attention and winking at Jon, bit into it directly.

The whole event went a bit off the rails. Upon hearing the commotion, several other employees of the Magnus Institute came in to see what was going on. Among them was Elias, who did not comment on the lack of work being done but did hover around for quite a while, even after brunch time dipped well into work time, and snagged several chocolate bars when he eventually left. 

In the end, it was Rosie, the receptionist, who requested, through a forced smile and gritted teeth, that no more large, noisy gatherings are held in their workplace.

Jon got even less work done than usual, but that seemed to be an office-wide trend.

This is also how Jon finds himself agreeing, for the very first time, to meet up with Tim, Sasha, and Martin outside of work. Somehow, the plan became for all of them to go around to Jon’s for board games. The very idea would normally appal him, but he blurted out an invitation, at the time considering it to be an improvement and relief over Tim and Sasha’s previous idea, which was laser tag.

But the panic is starting to set in now. God, he doesn’t even own any board games. The flat is clean, as he regularly works hard to maintain its state, despite Melanie's inclination towards chaos, but he’s never hosted guests there. And Melanie is ecstatic and wants to be involved, which is not helping with Jon’s growing stress.

It’s another potluck, which at least takes care of most of the food, but then again, the pancake batter was also made for a potluck. It doesn’t have a theme this time. Sasha shut that down since their previous one went awry. It’s also probably, in no small part, because Tim had big plans for a “surprisingly good combinations” theme and wanted them all to try sardines with peanut butter.

Apparently, unlike Sasha, Jon does not learn from his mistakes, so Melanie’s helping with the cooking again.

He doesn’t want her to, truthfully, and not just because she contributes nothing but setbacks in the kitchen. The truth is, even more than before, Jon doesn’t know how to interact with her. Georgie had texted him the day after she stayed for dinner, saying she was glad that he and Melanie had become friends. ( _“Friends?”_ he’d asked. _“Yeah, it’s nice to see you two getting along.”_ ) It baffled him at first because they _don’t_ get along. They argue all the time. But the more he thought about it, the more it both started to make sense and continued to confuse him. If they weren’t friends, they wouldn’t watch shows together. He’d get mad when she eats his food and makes fun of him. But he does. Or he used to?

But Melanie wanted to, for whatever reason. Actually, he knows the reason, which is just further proof that this is a mistake. _("Don't worry, I won't embarrass you in front of your coworkers,"_ she'd said, which was not at all reassuring, and then she'd cackled, which was even more cause to worry.) But maybe it’ll help him figure this out, and she’s extremely enthusiastic about making hand-pulled noodles after, again, seeing something about them online.

And anyway, Jon thinks to himself sarcastically, what could go wrong?


	9. It’s Fine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this chapter is longer but in a marginal way that doesn't justify the almost two months (oops) i took to write it.

Jon has a sneaking suspicion that the reason Melanie doesn’t like to cook unless it’s with him is that he’ll clean up after her and she can blame him for anything that goes wrong.

Case in point: the noodle dough is sticking all over the table, and Melanie insists that it’s his fault, but when Jon suggests adding more flour, she refuses and insists that _it’s fine, it’s not messed up_ and counters that _that’s not what the recipe says_ , even though she certainly has no penchant for rule-following.

So Jon decides to take the backseat in this operation and just goes to fetch and wash a metal ruler (it’s the closest thing they have to the dough scraper used in the recipe video) to scrape off the dried bits of dough and kitchen sponge to wipe the table when she’s done because it’ll definitely need it. She’s smacking the dough violently against the table to the thudding beats of her music, and her mouth is moving, but Jon can’t make out the words with all the noise. She might be cursing at the dough under her breath, or maybe she’s just singing along.

In any case, he flees the kitchen. He feels trapped in his bedroom and stupid just standing in the hallway, so even though Sasha’s volunteered to bring board games and he knows he doesn’t own any, he searches the flat for some just to get out of Melanie’s way.

Jon actually finds some playing cards wedged between cushions on the sofa, but it’s not a full deck, the cards are designed with cartoon-style ghost drawings, and the lone face card he finds depicts Melanie in a crown. He’s almost tempted to tuck them back into the sofa, but instead, after glancing into the kitchen and verifying that Melanie’s still struggling with the noodle-making, he gathers the cards into a neat stack and places them facedown on a lower shelf.

Eventually, Jon runs out of imaginary tasks and reluctantly makes his way back to the kitchen. The table is coated in flour and now-crusted flecks of dough, as is Melanie. She seems to be done attacking the dough, but he remains on the opposite side of the table from her as a safety precaution.

She seems very tired. She looks up when Jon approaches, and her glare’s a little less intense than usual, but he knows that a tired Melanie is potentially even more dangerous.

He peers over at the stove to avoid eye contact. “Smells good.”

“I am never cooking again.” Melanie runs a hand through her hair, streaking it with flour, picks up the ruler and whaps it repeatedly against her palm. “But they turned out pretty well. You’re welcome.”

Jon carefully reaches across the table to take the ruler, but she keeps it held tightly in her grasp. Melanie’s participation in this event was entirely voluntary— she even invited herself— and the noodles were her idea, but it does not seem like the time to bring that up, so after a moment of consideration, Jon just says, “I’ll clean.”

“Of course,” she agrees immediately, as if that wasn’t even a question, brushing her shirt off onto the table and floor. She pats his arm with the ruler before handing it to him and leaving.

Right. Jon starts to scrape the table with the ruler. It works pretty well. Aside from this, all of the dishes are still scattered around the kitchen. The guests are due to arrive at six, so he has— he checks his phone— about twenty minutes.

He’s basically finished cleaning the kitchen by the time Melanie reemerges, though he still lingers and continues to readjust things to quell the noise in his head. She hops up onto the table and looks around at the newly cleaned kitchen, swinging her legs, before pulling out her phone.

Jon stares at her for a moment, something at her brain itching at him to talk to her, but he doesn’t know what to say. He feels like she needs a sort of briefing— what to expect with the combined chaotic forces of Tim and Sasha, what and what not to say and do— but truthfully, he still doesn’t really know those things himself, she’s better at social interactions than him (though not by that much, and the bar is extremely low), and it’s not like she’d listen to him anyway. The thought of these two different parts of his life meeting is doing something unpleasant to his brain.

He wants something else to clean, but he’s already gone through the entire flat, so he has nothing to do but wait. Jon checks the time again on his phone, then opens up his texts to reread them. He hasn’t received anything new that would make him think otherwise, but just in case, he reconfirms that they are indeed due to arrive at six and that he typed his address correctly. 

Jon sighs loudly, not even realising until after the fact when the rhythmic thumping of Melanie’s feet hitting the table stops and he glances up to find her looking at him, seeming extremely unimpressed. He flees, once again, to the bathroom this time, and washes his hands since he’s there. The skin on his hands is very dry. 

He hears Melanie’s voice through the bathroom door. Jon can _not_ let Melanie interact with any of his coworkers without his supervision. And vice-versa, actually. He makes his way over to her as quickly as he can without running. Jon loses his balance as he nears her but manages to stop himself before they collide. Hopefully, she didn’t notice that. He’ll never hear the end of it. He understands now why Melanie often slides around the flat with her socks. Their floor is quite slippery, and sliding across it is actually sort of exhilarating. 

“Two people are here,” Melanie informs him after turning around. It seems as if she was too preoccupied with the intercom to have noticed his floundering.

He takes a few seconds to catch his breath before responding. “That’ll probably be Tim and Sasha.”

Melanie furrows her brows at him. “What’s wrong with you?” Well, shit.

Jon attempts to regulate his facial expression. What does he normally look like? “Hm?” he tries. That seemed pretty casual.

She’s not buying it. “Jon, what the fu—”

He’s saved by a merciful knock at their door. He lunges for it, then freezes and takes a second, once again, to try to adjust his expression. He feels Melanie’s eyes on him and hears her snort but elects to ignore her. 

Behind the door are Sasha, holding a brown paper grocery bag, and Martin, with a tote bag slung into the crook of his elbow and a glass dish covered over with foil in his hands. He flinches when the door opens. 

For a brief moment, they all just stand there in silence.

“Hi,” Sasha says, and this time, both Martin and Jon startle. "Thanks for having us."

Jon quickly moves back to let them in. 

“Hey,” Melanie says, and Jon’s looking at the guests as they remove their shoes, but he can hear her shit-eating grin through her voice. “Melanie King.”

Sasha tucks her bag under one arm and reaches out with the other hand to shake Melanie’s while she introduces herself.

“Oh, erm. I’m Martin. Martin Blackwood,” Martin stammers when Melanie turns to him. “We, um, work with Jon.”

They all look at Jon. Perhaps, as the mutual acquaintance, he should’ve introduced them to each other, but they’re adults, he doesn’t really want to, and anyway, they can figure it out well enough.

“Hello,” Jon supplies helpfully.

Melanie gives him an exasperated look and nudges him out of the way.

It’s awkward. It’s so horrifically awkward, and it’s been maybe two minutes. What the hell was Jon thinking, inviting his coworkers over to his place? He had a few successful interactions with them in the break room at work, and now he’s practically hosting a fucking party. 

Sasha’s followed Melanie over to the table, but Martin’s lingering behind.

Jon should probably say something to him, but just like how it’s been with Melanie, his brain’s gone and shut down on him. All he can think about the document storage room. After seeing Martin that weekend, he kept feeling drawn to it, but he’d tried to dismiss the urge. It was just a room, and he was being stupid. Why would he go? But also, it was just a room, and he was being stupid. Why couldn't he go? He’d gone, in the end, though he'd held off for a while. And it was all perfectly reasonable. It was part of his job, as the Head Archivist. He needed to go to Document Storage to make sure that all the... documents... were... stored.

It was… God, he doesn’t know. The casefile boxes and cot were there as Jon had last seen them, but there was also a small backpack propped up against the wall alongside the cot and a tape recorder set on top of it. That was fine. Then he noticed a string of fairy lights draped across a shelf. That was also fine. Whatever. He doesn’t care; he has no reason to. He just isn’t sure why he froze at the sight of it and then started feeling as though he were slowly sinking into the ground.

He hadn’t seen Martin since.

But now, here Martin is, looking around his living room while trying to seem like he isn’t, and continually glancing at Jon.

Jon scours the depths of his empty brain for something to say while also keeping an eye out on Martin and trying to listen in on what Melanie might be telling Sasha.

Where is Tim? Tim is loud and not awkward and knows how to talk to people.

“Food can go on the table,” Jon says at last. He might fail at small talk, but he sure can state facts.

“Right,” Martin says, blinking down at his dish like he’d forgotten he was holding it. He hurries to move next to Sasha.

Jon lets out a sigh before following. 

Sasha and Melanie are talking, and it doesn’t seem as though Jon is the subject of their conversation, thankfully, so he heads to the cupboard for something to do.

He fills two glasses and stares at them in his hands, debating between handing them out or setting them on the table, so instead, he leaves them beside the sink and fills three more glasses and the Brita.

Procrastination does not solve problems. Now he has five glasses of water and the same dilemma.

He’s saved again, and Jon’s relief must be palpable when he abandons the water to buzz Tim in. 

He heads to the door to wait, but Jon was a fool for wishing Tim would arrive because he opens it to reveal Tim standing there with a big smile and a container, which is see-through and allows for a clear view of what can only be sardines and peanut butter inside.


	10. Better than Expected

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> remember when this fic used to update more than once a week? lol

More introductions are made. Tim and Melanie hit it off immediately after complimenting each other’s button-up shirts, getting along a little _too_ well for Jon's comfort. Each of them then show the food they brought, Sasha pulling a container of galinhada out of her bag, Martin uncovering his dish of pierogis, and Tim… Oh, Tim.

Melanie instructs Jon to bring the pot of beef noodle soup over from the kitchen, which he does without complaint, mostly because a task will give him an excuse to not have to make conversation or eye contact. Melanie uncovers it and is clearly pleased by the dramatic puff of steam and resulting “ooh”s. 

Their guests are appropriately impressed. “Wow, you made this? From scratch?”

“Yep,” Melanie says, shrugging with a show of nonchalance. The corners of her mouth are stretched up, though. “Unless it tastes bad, in which case it was all Jon.”

“I guess it was all me, then,” Jon replies, then frowns when Melanie smirks at him. Admittedly, it’s not his best comeback, and now everyone is staring at him, Tim and Sasha seeming amused, Martin confused.

The food is dished out, and they all dig in. Melanie gets credit for the beef noodle soup, the broth deep and just the right amount of spicy, though the noodles are a bit dense. The meal is carb-heavy, but Sasha’s Brazilian stew with rice and chicken is delicious and satisfying, and Martin’s pierogis are savoury and warm. Tim’s sardines and peanut butter remain untouched. 

Tim, Sasha, and Melanie get into a heated discussion about Post-it note colours, of all things, so Jon tunes out in favour of eating until Melanie kicks him under the table.

He startles. “What?”

“Weren’t you getting everyone water before?” Melanie asks. “Sasha’s thirsty.”

Sasha grimaces at the mention of her name and gives Jon a rather awkward smile. 

“Oh. Yeah,” Jon says, looking over at the counter where he abandoned the five glasses of water earlier and then getting up.

He tucks one glass into the crook of his elbow, sandwiches another between his wrist and chest, and grasps one in his hand. He sweeps the remaining two up with his other arm, then turns around, and nearly crashes into Martin. 

Somehow, Jon doesn’t drop any of them and only a little bit of water sloshes over, just onto the floor.

“Sorry. Sorry! I just came to help,” Martin explains, panicked. “I can— can I help you carry them?”

“I’ve got it,” Jon says, starting again towards the table, then nearly stumbles again. He turns slightly to look at Martin, hoping that he didn’t notice, and Martin, who definitely saw, just takes a step back and raises his hands, as if to show his innocence.

Jon makes it to the table without further incident but then has no way to hand out the damn glasses. He heads awkwardly back to his own seat, then nudges his plate aside with his arm, and sets them all down together. He leaves Melanie to distribute them and has to get up again to bring more because Sasha and Martin brought wine. They don't own proper wine glasses, so he contemplates in front of the cupboard for a while, then takes down some mugs and struggles to hook them all on his fingers. He holds his hands out over the table, and each guest selects one from the variety of souvenirs and merch, feeling the heat in his face and ignoring the face Melanie makes at him. He takes a long drink from a chipped _What the Ghost?_ mug.

After a while, they all sit back, full and quiet and pleased, until Tim leans forward and picks up his wretched container. The lid is still on, since no one’s eaten any, and he pulls it off with a growing grin.

“Tim,” Sasha says, her eyes rolling and fondness all over her face.

“ _Sasha_.” Tim rolls his eyes back, then eats one, making an exaggerated _mm_ sound, then pressing his each of his fingers to his mouth in turn. He acts like this, but he's still somehow the only of them with self-preservation instincts.

Sasha picks up her now-empty glass and stands, looking around, so Melanie gets up and leads her to the kitchen.

Tim sighs exaggeratedly and turns to his remaining potential victims. “Martin?” he sing-songs, raising his eyebrows and holding out the open container. “Marto, my best friend.”

“Um.” Tim’s best friend, Marto, looks quite alarmed and glances quickly to Sasha, but Sasha’s distracted and Martin’s a pushover. “Alright.” He picks one up gingerly and transfers it to his plate to cut it in half with his fork. He’s quiet as he chews and considers. 

“So?” Tim asks, leaning forward, head on his hands, elbows propped up on the table.

“It tastes… Well, it just tastes like sardines with peanut butter,” he says with an awkward chuckle.

“Oh, Martin, you actually tried it?” Sasha asks, returning with more water and Melanie.

“Yes, and he loved it,” Tim answers, and when Sasha raises her eyebrows, Martin just laughs again.

“I mean, it doesn’t sound _good_ , but it’s just peanut butter fish,” Melanie chimes in with a shrug, then pops one in her mouth.

Tim is pleased. “Melanie, you’re my _favourite_.”

She chews it quickly, frowning, and reaches for her water. “Yeah, it’s not good. Jon, you should try it.”

“ _You_ try it,” he replies automatically, then regrets himself. “Fine,” he says hastily, agreeing only to divert attention from his second failed retort. He plucks the other half from Martin’s plate.

It’s thick and oily and fishy and not good. Everyone’s looking at him expectantly, so he says, “Just tastes like sardines and peanut butter.” Martin’s description was succinct.

Tim looks slightly disappointed but then turns to Sasha, brightens immediately, and begins chanting her name.

Sasha sighs. “Fine.” She reaches across the table for the container, and Tim cheers. She bites one carefully, then puts the rest in her mouth and starts to shake her head and smile. “Oh, fuck, I actually kind of like it.”

Tim whoops, gives a dramatic chef's kiss, and reaches for Sasha’s hands and waves them in the air. “I _told_ you! Sasha James, a fellow sardines and peanut butter enthusiast. You didn’t even want to _try_ them. You even said we shouldn’t do the 'surprisingly good combinations' theme.”

“I just meant that they’re better than I expected!”

“You mean that they’re a _surprisingly good combination_?”

Jon knows how this goes. He stands and starts stacking the dishes. Melanie doesn’t help, but she follows him to the kitchen. 

“This is sort of weird,” she says after a moment, watching him set the plates in the sink. 

He doesn’t know what to make of that. 

She pulls herself onto the counter. “I’ve heard your brunch story, but I wasn’t expecting your Institute coworkers to be… fun.”

 _Fun_. He looks over his shoulder, slow and deliberate, to the table, where Tim seems to be trying to convince Sasha to join him in dancing. There’s music going, but it’s just one of Melanie’s playlists. The current song involves lots of screaming. Jon recognises it; Melanie plays it a lot.

He’s not fully sure what to do, now that they're done eating. It's not the sort of gathering where they'd really drink more, but the wine Sasha and Martin brought is done, and he and Melanie don't have anything else, so it's not an option anyway. In fact, besides water, the only other drink in their flat is milk. Lots of milk, since Jon eats quite a lot of cereal. Offering milk to his colleagues seems worse than not offering them alcohol, though. He asks Melanie.

They both turn. Tim's taken hold of Sasha's hands and is manoeuvering her arms into a sort of flailing dance. Jon's pretty sure they've put the screaming song on loop— there's no way it goes on for this long. Despite their behaviour, though, he has the sense that this is more due to their personalities than their alcohol intakes.

Melanie grins, and when Jon looks at her, she starts to laugh.

“What?” he asks, but she just shakes her head, waves him off, then runs to her room. He turns back to the dishes, partially because Martin’s noticed him looking in the direction of the table and is staring at him.

He looks up again when Melanie reemerges a few moments later cradling a box of Capri-Suns, studiously ignoring Jon and the incredulous look he’s giving her. 

Jon’s sort of embarrassed, to be serving children’s juice his colleagues from work at an academic institute. He also didn’t realise Melanie kept Capri-Suns in the flat and wonders how she managed to hide them from him, if she has more, and how he can take some.

“Oh my god, are those Capri-Suns?” Tim asks. “How do you have an entire box of the _Big Pouch_ kind?”

“Ooh, blackcurrant! That’s the best flavour.”

“ _Orange_ is the best flavour.”

Jon needn’t have been embarrassed. 

It takes a while for the ruckus to die down, but then they settle, drinking Capri-Suns and chattering comfortably. 

Jon finishes with the washing up and returns to his seat.

Martin gives him a tentative smile before asking, hesitantly, “Games?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> the song with the screaming is drunk walk home by mitski. 
> 
> also, i just want to say, for the record, that if this took place after 2019, melanie would absolutely hate money machine by 100 gecs and also put it on every single one of her playlists.


	11. Oops

Martin Blackwood is cheating.

So far, they’ve played Scrabble, Codenames, and UNO. Scrabble is long, so they’ve just played once, but they’ve also only played a few rounds of each of the others because Tim complains that the games are “too boring” when he loses, then insists they play something else. Sasha swept the floor with all of them nearly every time. Melanie is extremely competitive but not very good, though she’d probably be better if she stopped putting all of her focus and energy into targeting Jon. Martin laughs while they play and pretends not to huff when he loses.

Jon’s been holding his own. Or, he would be, if “holding his own” meant losing spectacularly. Look, he won the first round of UNO, which is an extremely difficult card game of skill and strategy. He didn’t win any after that, though, because UNO is a stupid game of random chance and dumb luck.

They’re on their third round of Coup now. Only Tim and Sasha have played before, and Jon’s still trying to keep up with what each card does. So there’s no way that Martin, who is also a first-time player and who can’t even do his damn statement follow-up properly, which is his _job_ , is intelligent enough to be besting even Sasha at this hidden-role strategy game where the goal is to bluff, bribe, and oust the other players.

Jon himself has no money and only one card left, courtesy of Melanie, and has no idea what cards Martin’s got. Martin keeps claiming different roles, and in this round alone, he’s said at least five different lies, but they’re all too scared to call him out. 

Eventually, Sasha challenges him and loses. Martin already took Tim and Melanie out easily, and they’ve been entertaining themselves by playing rock, paper, scissors.

Sasha scoots over next to Jon and peers at his remaining card, then frowns at the table.

“Okay, right. When I challenged him earlier, he turned out to actually have a duke, which means the odds of him still having a duke are low.”

Jon is not quite sure what that means. He nods. He’s got an assassin card, which seems promising, as whoever kills the other players wins, but he can’t assassinate anyone since he doesn’t have any money, and he doesn’t have any money because Melanie claimed to be a captain and kept stealing his coins. It turned out that she’d been lying and only said that so she'd be allowed to steal. 

Sasha pushes up her glasses. “Except that Duke is a good card for him now, since he’s already got six coins, and he just exchanged with the deck, claiming Ambassador, so he might have switched back to Duke.”

Jon looks at his card and hopes that he looks like he’s following along. Across the table, Martin just looks as vaguely confused as usual and not at all like he's secretly a master of psychological manipulation.

“Maybe you should just take income?” Sasha says, then immediately shakes her head. “But he’s already got six, so he’ll be able to throw a coup after another turn…”

Melanie comes over to see, picks up Jon’s card, then scrunches her nose. “No, he should steal so that Martin won’t have enough money to throw a coup.”

“Jon can’t steal. He’s got an assassin, not a captain,” Tim says, effectively spoiling the hidden role of the hidden-role game.

“Tim!”

“Sasha! Wait, what? Oh. Oops.”

Sasha sighs. “Martin, what did you have?”

Martin looks up from where he’s stacking his coins into a tower because he has that fucking many. “Erm. Let me check.”

“You don’t even _remember_? How do you _do_ this? Or do you just not look and that's your strategy?”

Coup is another stupid game, as far as Jon is concerned. He starts gathering up the cards to discourage anyone from suggesting another round. Whatever. He’s not really into board and card games anyway. He made the mistake of playing his actual favourite game with Georgie and Melanie nearly a year ago, and Melanie only recently stopped making fun of him for it.

Tim sits back down and yawns loudly. “This game is boring. Let’s play something else.”

Melanie collapses next to him, then bats him on the arm, says, “Tag, no tag-backs.”

Tim gives a single pat to the top of Melanie’s head.

“I said ‘no tag-backs.’” 

“Fine.” He turns. “Hey, Sasha, come here.”

“Tim, how dumb do you think I am?” Sasha asks, then jumps out of the way, dropping the stack of cards she’s holding, just as Tim moves to lunge for her. “I’m not playing!”

“Alright!” Tim backs up, pretending to scowl, then sits down again. “Hey, Martin, come here.”

Martin glances up from where he’s still sat smiling at his coin tower. “No, thank you.”

“Boss?” Tim calls. He holds up a hand. “High five?”

Jon clutches the cards close, startled, before tucking them back into the game box. “I’m not playing either.”

Melanie snorts then coughs, but when he looks at her, she just widens her eyes and busies herself by drinking her Capri-Sun.

Jon sweeps the coins off of the table and into the box, including the insufferable winner’s coin tower, ignoring Martin’s startled expression. He reaches for the lid and puts it on, smirking a little when the box lets out a squeak and whoosh that isn’t unlike the sound of a fart. 

Martin yelps, all of a sudden, immediately followed by the screech of a chair against the floor, then a crash and the clattering of one hundred Scrabble tiles emptying out of the box and onto the floor. 

They all look, somewhat incredulously, as Tim straightens up guiltily before tapping Martin lightly on the shoulder. “Tag.”

“Oh, God. Our neighbours already hate us,” Melanie groans. “Okay, no more tag. We might get another noise complaint.”

“Another?” Martin asks from where he’s squatting to help gather the tiles Tim knocked over.

“Yeah. One time, Jon—”

“I seem to remember that tag was your idea,” Jon interrupts, because his coworkers don’t need to know about the karaoke night he had with Georgie, the two of them basking in nostalgia for uni by singing at the top of their lungs. And anyway, it was only once. Also, it wasn’t even a real noise complaint. The neighbours just knocked on the wall a couple of times. (Many times because Jon didn’t hear it at first.)

Melanie rolls her eyes. “Should we play _your_ favourite game instead, Shakespeare?”

Martin looks up again with interest. 

Before anyone can ask, Jon says, “Melanie, kindly hand me a Capri-Sun and shut your mouth.”

She complies, surprisingly, reaching over to pick one up and then tossing it at him. He fails to catch it, and it hits him on the knee. 

“Actually, I should put these away now. They taste better cold,” Melanie says, mostly to herself, and picks up the box with the remaining few, carrying it back to her room.

A few hours have passed since Melanie brought the box out, and when Jon sips his Capri-Sun, the first he’s had of the night, it’s room temperature. So it takes a few moments for what she said to register.

“Cold?” he repeats, once the implication dawns on him. He sets his juice pouch down and hops up to follow her. “What d'you mean cold?”

Melanie closed her bedroom door behind her, and he knows everyone else is watching him, but she went into his room to secretly use his Wi-Fi, so he opens the door, just in time to see Melanie stand up and throw a pile of clothes on top of a white box that looks suspiciously like a mini-fridge she’s secretly keeping in her room.

"Melanie King, is that a—?"

Melanie rushes out of her room and barrels Jon aside, then turns and firmly shuts the door behind her. She loops his arm through hers and pulls him away. "Come on. What game's next? Let's go play!"


	12. He's a Professional

Jon extricates his arm from Melanie’s, adjusting his shirt collar after he steps away, pretending that three of his coworkers aren’t watching him. He’s a professional.

How long are they going to stay anyway? Will they all leave on their own or will he have to kick them out? What’s a reasonable time for them to leave? It’s been a couple of hours by now.

He maintains perfect dignity as he pulls up his sleeve to check his watch. It’s half ten.

Sasha seems to take this as a hint. Jon’s not sure if he meant it to be one.

“Well, I haven’t brought any other games,” she says, sitting up. “Anyone still have something they want to play?”

“I don’t know.” Melanie looks to Jon for a moment before shrugging and settling down on the sofa. “But you all can stay as long as you want.”

Jon is fine with them staying longer, but this, he thinks, is too generous of an invitation. Tonight’s gone better than he expected, sure, but to be fair, his expectations were on the floor. 

“Oh, we don’t want to put you out,” Sasha says, though she’s sat back in her chair again.

“Let’s play something,” says Tim, though he’s complained about every game they’ve played so far. He suddenly grins. “I want to hear about Jon’s favourite game.”

Maybe Jon will have to kick them out. 

“No.” He walks stiffly over to the table and starts picking up the few used napkins and empty Capri-Sun pouches lying around.

It’s a bit embarrassing to make a big deal out of it, but he doesn’t actually care if they know. The problem is that Melanie knows this about him, damn her, so she’s got no problem drawing it out into a whole production. He eyes them as he moves towards the bin.

“ _Well_ ,” Melanie says dramatically, leaning in towards the others.

“Hold on,” Martin begins anxiously, then hesitates. “Um, we—”

“It's fine; he doesn’t give a shit.”

Martin looks like he’s about to say something again, but then he glances over towards the kitchen and realises Jon’s listening in. Jon dumps the trash and dusts his hands off, and Martin flushes but stays quiet.

“Wait,” Tim interjects. “Can we guess what it is?” 

Melanie laughs and collapses onto the sofa. “It’s like we’re playing already.”

Jon snorts, then quickly turns away to wash his hands when Tim and Martin glance over at him.

“A guessing game?” Sasha asks.

“Like... Guess Who?" Tim guesses. "Or Pictionary?” 

“Trivia?” Martin asks, scratching the back of his neck.

“I can’t say,” Melanie says. She looks up at Jon with wide eyes, attempting to hold in her laughter but failing once they make eye contact.

“Wait,” Sasha says suddenly. “Is it charades?”

Melanie nods because she's laughing too much to manage a verbal response. 

"It is?" Tim asks, at the same time that Martin repeats, "Charades?"

It was a stupid joke, but something about the way the others keep asking and how Melanie keeps looking at him relieves whatever tension was in the air and Jon's shoulders. Suddenly, they're like the kids that the teacher had to separate but still joke around even across a classroom, and Jon's trying not to laugh, and it really wasn't that funny, but they're still both cracking up. 

Jon regains his composure and moves to sit next to Tim on the sofa.

“How do you play?” Tim asks.

Sasha gives him an incredulous look. “You don’t know how to play charades?”

“No, I mean, do you have the box with the cards or anything or just choose your own words?”

Melanie slaps a hand against her knee. “Oh, don’t you worry. Jon’s got the app.”

Martin chuckles.

Jon frowns and leans past Tim to look at him. “What?”

Martin’s chuckle turns into a cough. “Erm. Nothing. Sorry.”

“You really like charades?” Tim asks.

What’s wrong with that? It’s just a game. It might be childish, but it’s no more childish than impromptu games of tag or Capri-Suns, and they had no issues with those. “Yes.”

Tim raises his eyebrows, considering. “I thought your favourite game would be, like, chess or something.”

He seems like he'd like chess? What does _that_ mean? He hardly even knows how to play chess.

Melanie scoffs.

“What?” Jon says again.

“You can’t play chess.”

He'd been thinking the same thing, but that doesn't mean he isn't offended. “I can."

“Knowing how each piece moves isn’t the same as being able to play.”

“That’s how you play," he insists.

“No, you just move the pieces around randomly. You wouldn’t be able to use an actual strategy or win a game.”

“I’ve beaten you before," Jon says, affronted, feeling awfully attacked for someone who is very generously hosting dinner for his absurd flatmate and all of his assistants.

Melanie rolls her eyes and starts scrolling through Jon’s phone. He’s not sure when and how she got it from him. “That was a stalemate, and you only got that far because Georgie helped you.”

“I actually beat you that time when we played on your phone. At the post office.”

“That was a forfeit! You just pressed undo whenever you messed up!”

“I won, though.”

“You didn’t ‘actually beat me’ if I forfeited because you cheated.” She holds up a hand when Jon starts to argue. “Anyway. Five people. How many teams?”

Right. Other people are here and observing this. “Two,” he says, avoiding looking at Tim, Sasha, or Martin, who seem to have taken in this conversation with varying levels of amusement and concern. He clears his throat. These are charades basics. “You should always play with fewer teams if there’s an odd number of people.”

***

They play charades.

They play for even longer than they did for Scrabble, and by the time they wind down, they’ve mostly given up and are just throwing out shit answers to be funny.

When they've played with Georgie, Melanie’s more competitive, but today, she draws all— rather than just most— of her entertainment from Jon’s acting instead of the actual gameplay.

Everyone else sucks, except for Tim, who guesses the most correct answers only because he gives the most answers, spitting out whatever comes to mind. Tim is also, unfortunately, the opposition, and Jon is by far the most invested and skilled member of his team. Sasha’s fine at guessing but keeps acting out the words one by one instead of going for the concept, and Martin seems to have been bewildered into silence, which was fine for the acting part but not the guessing part, and the acting abided by the rules, yes, but was rather lacklustre.

Jon’s team wins, though by the end, no one else cares about the scores.

Sasha yawns and turns from side to side to crack her back. “Well, that was fun.”

“Good game, boss.” Tim grins.

Melanie laughs. “Your performance for ‘hurricane’ was particularly impressive.”

It had involved a lot of spinning and arm-flailing and Jon waiting for the world to stop spinning for several minutes afterwards. He’s not embarrassed about it; he can be invested in a game.

They all stand and gather their things and shuffle towards the door. Jon hovers around and gathers trash for something to do.

Once containers are collected, phone numbers are exchanged, and jackets and shoes are tugged on, Melanie receives hugs goodbye from both Sasha and Martin, and she and Tim perform some sort of elaborate handshake. Then they all look at Jon.

“See you Monday!” Sasha says.

Tim tries to give him a high-five. “Thanks, boss!”

Martin sort of waves at him before scratching his head. “Thank you for having us.”

“Sure!” Melanie says after a beat. “Thanks for coming. Nice to meet you all. And Sasha, I’ll send you that recipe.”

“Ooh, we should all cook together,” suggests Tim. 

Oh, God.

But they leave, and there's not as much relief as Jon expected. It's not really messy, but he clears up for a long while afterwards.

He sees and hears Melanie barge into his room, but after she realises he's not there and finds him in the living room adjusting the sofa cushions, she just says "oh" and goes back to her room. He doesn't know what that's about, but he turns in shortly after.

***

At the Institute on Monday, for all his skills in charades, Jon doesn’t know how to act.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> that last line is so dumb but i couldn't not include it.


	13. It's Not Going Well

He’s late. 

Jon’s normally punctual, though he doesn’t try particularly hard to be. He doesn’t set an alarm to wake up in the mornings. If he's doing something, he'll stay up to do it; he's just usually awake on time because he doesn't often have something to do. Though Elias makes a point to give him some snide comment every time he's late, just because.

But he’s late on Monday morning because Melanie was in his room watching _The Legend of Korra_ and didn’t have the decency to use headphones. Well, she didn’t use headphones because he was also watching and wanted to hear, but still. 

Melanie’s always up late, and Jon hasn’t seen her do any work since they started living together, so he’d been under the impression that she had been unemployed ever since _Ghost Hunt UK_ ended. It's a reasonable conclusion to make, he thinks, but when he offhandedly mentioned it around one in the morning, they got into the first actual argument they’ve had in weeks. She’s been doing freelance video editing, she informed him, and she’s been paying rent. What did he think she did all day? But she didn’t storm out after, just told him to shut up and showed him a dubbed video of Korra and Mako talking about sucking dick. 

Anyway, they ended up staying up until nearly 4 am.

It’s not like anyone genuinely cares that he’s late, Elias included, but it’s her fault, in case anyone asks why. It’s by two and a half hours, but, as it very quickly becomes evident, no else is doing work now either.

Tim’s voice carries, and Jon can hear him before even reaching the Archives. “But what about that cop?”

Sasha says something response, but Jon can’t fully make it out.

“Neither of them, though, you think?” Tim asks. He's perched on the corner of Sasha's desk, Martin standing beside him.

Sasha notices him walk in. “Morning, Jon!” she says loudly.

“You could just ask him,” Tim says, and they all turn around to face Jon. Tim slings his arm around Martin, who’s flushed and fiddling with the sleeves of his jumper. “Hey, boss! Late night?” 

“Hello,” Jon says.

Martin gently shrugs Tim off. “I’ll get back to work.” He leaves in a wide arc around where Jon’s standing, picking his jacket up as he walks by his desk.

“Me too. Have some files to get.” Tim shoots finger guns at Jon and Sasha before hurrying after Martin.

Jon gives Sasha a curt nod and starts to turn to his office.

“Thanks for having us over,” she says, startling Jon towards her again.

He nods stiffly.

“Melanie’s nice,” Sasha says, her cheeriness undeterred.

“Ha. No, she's not.”

“Well, it was nice to meet her anyway.”

“If you insist.” 

She laughs, then gathers her hair up into a ponytail. “So. Have you gone through the Wakefield visitor logs yet?" At Jon's blank look, she continues. "I gave them to you last… Tuesday?”

It takes him by surprise, her talking about work, even though they’re coworkers and at work. He’d sort of forgotten, but as soon as she mentions the logs, he remembers it’s because he'd intentionally not been thinking about them.

“Right.” He sighs. “I started going through them, but I’m… ah, still looking.” It’s technically true, but “started” only means he flipped through the pages before setting them back down.

“Oh, okay. Then, just one more thing. I was able to meet with Daniel Rawlings earlier and got a photo.” She fishes an envelope out of a small stack of papers on her desk and holds it out to him. 

“Earlier today?” he asks, taking it. She nods, and he nods back. “Well. Good work.”

In his office, Jon sits heavily on his chair, already tired. He sets the envelope to the side on his desk and picks up the folder with the Wakefield prison visitor logs.

He’d been avoiding this for good reason. It’s just pages and pages of scrawled names and dates. He flicks through them for fifteen minutes, then realises he hadn’t even been reading, just staring down at the ink.

He stretches back in his desk chair, providing temporary relief for his hunched shoulders, and resolves to stay in his office until he’s done.

***

It’s not going well.

He actually did it— managed to pick out the name “Maxwell Rayner”— but there was no sense of achievement afterwards. He just felt ridiculous for taking so long to do even that. 

He put music on hoping that it would help him focus. Melanie recently mentioned “ _lofi hip hop radio - beats to relax/study to_ ”. He’s pretty sure she was joking about it, but he’s got it playing anyway, and he can’t tell if it’s actually helping him relax/study or just making him feel like he’s slowly drowning.

Now he’s looking back and forth between pictures of Daniel Rawlings and playing the world’s dumbest game of spot the difference, but they’re just different fully people with similar hair and his job is stupid.

He barely hears the knock among the midst of the lofi hip hop beats.

“Hi,” Martin says, cracking the door open with one hand and balancing a cup of tea with the other.

In all his life, Jon has never been so relieved to see Martin Blackwood— well, what Martin Blackwood has brought in with him. Among this hazy swarm of birds chirping and clocks ticking and water dripping that Jon has come to accept as his life is an unsolicited but highly welcome cup of tea.

“Erm, I brought…” Martin says, trailing off as he glances quizzically between Jon and the computer. “Here.” He raises the cup slightly as if displaying evidence that he's telling the truth, then sets the cup on Jon’s desk.

“Thank you,” Jon says, reaching for it. It’s still hot, but he downs it. 

Martin coughs, surprised. “You…”

Jon checks the time on his computer, though it couldn’t have been more than five minutes since he last looked, hoping it’s suddenly become time to go home. It is not. The screen also displays the song playing, which is “ _I feel serene_ ” by j’san. He does not feel serene.

“Are you alright?” Martin asks, eyes darting to the empty cup in Jon’s hands.

Jon clears his throat. “Fine.”

“Okay, well. Great,” Martin says, looking unconvinced, though he doesn't contest it. He scratches his head. “I can take the cup? Or did you want more…?”

“Ah.” Jon looks at the cup for a moment before making a decision and standing. “No, I’ll take it.”

“O-okay,” Martin says again. 

They make it out of the office after Jon starts to awkwardly shuffle around Martin, who seems to be waiting to follow him out, but then Martin moves and ends up in front of him. At some point, Tim also came back without Jon noticing, as he's now eating a prawn curry at his desk. As they pass by, Martin hesitates and turns towards Jon, visibly debating with himself, then heads to his desk.

Jon takes his cup to the sink and washes it thoroughly. He dries it and tucks it into the cupboard, then checks his pockets, then goes home.

Late to work, early to leave, as the old saying goes. Elias can get fucked.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> …[dubbed video of Korra and Mako talking about sucking dick](https://kaiserneko.tumblr.com/post/23130580634/amon-this-sport-would-be-great-if-it-wasnt-for)


	14. Headache

“When you get stabbed,” Melanie says, “I’m not to be held responsible.”

Jon instinctively steps between Melanie and the knife drawer.

“Jon,” she says, and he looks at her over his glasses. “Seriously. What are you doing?”

It’s fairly obvious, he thinks, especially since he’s answered this very question three times already. Around the kitchen, every surface is covered by pots and pans and all the snacks and spices they keep in their cabinets.

He shakes his head and reaches up to rub his eyes. “Organising.”

“Yeah, okay, but _why_ are you organising everything right now, and why did you take everything out _again_ when you’ve just taken everything out and put it back already?”

“I’m thinking,” he explains, though he’s not sure if the organising is actually helping him think or just distracting him. He’d take either, honestly.

The tower of snacks he’d built topples over, sending packages spilling onto the floor.

Melanie huffs at him, bending down to pick them up and toss them back onto the counter. 

“I’ll be in your room watching _Bake Off_ ,” she says, straightening up and turning to leave. “You can join once you’re done being an idiot.”

The experience of watching _Bake Off_ with Melanie— and it sure is an experience— is best described as “mildly amusing but mostly headache-inducing”, so it’s not a very tempting offer. Other people probably find _Bake Off_ nice and relaxing; Melanie watches it solely to swear at Paul Hollywood. 

Jon’s almost cleared everything away again when they get a visitor. It’s nearly 1 am, and he’s certainly not expecting anyone. Melanie zooms over and buzzes whoever it is in, but then dashes right back into his room.

“Who is that?” Jon calls after her, growing increasingly stressed. He’s going to have to clean the whole flat, at this rate. “Melanie!”

He doesn’t want to deal with whatever this is, so he goes to the bathroom to wait/hide.

He’s just washed his hands for the second time when there’s a knock.

“Get the door, Sims!” Melanie yells.

He neither gets the door nor responds.

“Jon!”

“You get the door!” he huffs. What the hell is she doing, inviting people round after midnight?

His phone buzzes in his pocket.

 **Georgie Barker** (00:52) will one of you let me in?  
 **Georgie Barker** (00:52) and stop yelling i can hear you from out here  
 **Georgie Barker** (00:53) your neighbours will hear and you'll be getting noise complaint number 3 lol

Oh.

Jon rushes over to find Georgie waiting with raised eyebrows, a backpack, and an umbrella.

“Hi.” He turns around and looks searchingly down the hallway. “Uh, hi,” he says again, uncertain.

“Hey! So. What’s going on with you?”

“Hmm?” He turns back around to her. She gives him a quick smile that turns into a grimace as she slips out of her shoes. “What d’you mean?”

She studies him for a moment, then walks over to the sofa. “Melanie said to come over because you’re being weird about something.”

“What?” he asks again. He frowns. “‘Weird’?”

“Well, she actually said ‘fucking up the kitchen while having some sort of late-night crisis’.” She shrugs apologetically. “But I’m thinking it might be accurate?” She looks pointedly towards the kitchen, where all of their pots and pans are still out, and raises an eyebrow.

He goes over to restacks the pots and pans and put them in the oven, where they’re kept for storage.

“So,” Georgie resumes, turning to look over the back of the sofa at him. “I was instructed to get you to stop cleaning and then either talk to you about whatever it is that’s bothering you or get you to watch _Bake Off_ with Melanie. You’ve stopped cleaning, yeah? What’ll it be?”

***

Two and a half _Bake Off_ episodes, lots of yelling, and seven more hours later, Jon wakes up. He’s lying sideways across his bed with two empty spots beside him, his duvet tangled around his feet, and nearly all of his pillows scattered on the floor.

Georgie and Melanie are sitting at the table eating a frozen pizza.

He coughs. “Hello.”

“Good morning,” Georgie replies.

Melanie wordlessly cuts and passes him a slice. Jon sits.

“Doing better?” Georgie asks.

He takes a bite and chews while he considers before nodding. His brain’s calmed down, at least.

“Okay. Great. So would you like to tell us anything?”

He sighs. Right.

***

Jon hadn’t left work early again this week, but all of the Archives staff knew that he did on Monday, of course, since he walked by them on his way out. He came in late again on Tuesday and ignored their exchanged glances on the way to his office.

He’d like to think that he’s a decent boss, which he is, at least relatively, compared to his own boss and his predecessor, who seemingly did nothing besides make a mess. But he’s been struggling with work all week, to the extent that all of his assistants noticed.

It was in the break room yesterday that they cornered him for their intervention.

When he went in, only Martin was there, alone but making tea for four. They didn’t speak beyond an initial exchange of awkward greetings. Then Tim and Sasha came in.

The fact that Tim started with mundane conversation, instead of the charades-related quips Jon’s been getting all week, should have indicated something was up. 

Tim looked between them for a moment before taking a cup. “Afternoon.”

“Hello.”

He took a sip and leant against the wall. “How’ve you been doing?”

“Fine,” Jon lied. 

“What about… You’ve been doing lots of sorting? For the statements?”

Jon tensed, feeling oddly like he’d been caught doing something wrong. “I suppose,” he said, feeling suddenly itchy along his back. “Er, you know. Gertrude.”

Tim looked to Sasha, who considered him for a moment before sighing.

“Alright, well,” she began, taking the seat beside Martin. “We noticed that you’ve seemed… more stressed than usual.”

“We’re worried that the work and the pressure might be, er, overwhelming?” Martin added. “Not that you can’t handle it or anything! But it’s a lot.”

Jon blinked at them, unsure of what to say. It’s true, of course, but he hadn’t thought he’d been obvious about it. He bit back his initial temptation to snap at them, uncomfortable with the sudden attention.

“Okay, boss, we’ve all been trying to sort of up our game lately. Especially Sasha— she’s done so much. Like, she managed to find the records for Wakefield, and I’d looked for ages before she did. She did that creepy-ass taxidermy investigation by herself. And Martin’s done follow-up for loads of statements.”

“Right,” Jon said quickly. “You’re right. You’ve all been doing good work. I appreciate it.” 

“We don’t mean it as an insult or anything,” Martin said. “Just, we wanted to say that if things are too much, we can do more?”

They’re being generous, overly so. If things are too much, he's the one who should be doing more. But they shouldn't be too much. He's their boss, and he's been failing them. Their work is affected by his shortcomings, too. He can't be angry about their confrontation; he should be ashamed, really. 

“I’ll do better," he said, wishing it was a promise he could keep.

He sighed and expected that would be the end of it, but then they all looked at each other again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i wrote this before and just kept it, but forget what i said about bake off being nice. "japanese week" ffs


	15. Sounds Good

Georgie frowns. Melanie reaches across the table for another slice of pizza. Jon wishes for the earth to swallow him whole.

“Why don’t you take a break?” Georgie suggests.

That sounds good. The problem is, though, taking a break also requires going back to work afterwards, which sounds significantly less good.

“No,” he says after a moment. “It’s not like I’m burnt out. I just… want to do less. Forever.”

“What, like death?” Melanie asks.

He and Georgie kick her under the table at the same time.

“Do you want to quit?” Melanie asks, and the question makes Jon freeze.

He’s never even really considered it. He can do his job, so he keeps doing it. Whether or not he wants to is irrelevant.

“I don’t think so.” He’s not a fan of his boss or his workload, but he appreciates his coworkers and his salary. He doesn’t expect other jobs would be any better.

“But you’re unhappy,” Melanie says, visibly dissatisfied with his answer.

“You were promoted,” Georgie interrupts. “What’s your position now?”

“Head Archivist.”

“How is it?”

“Fine.” He sets his pizza slice down. “No. I don’t know.” He accepted his promotion without much consideration, and maybe he shouldn’t have, but it’s not like he was much happier in the research department. He might as well get paid more.

Georgie wrinkles her forehead. “Seems like it’s bad, then. But you don’t want to quit. You like your department but don’t… what? You want fewer responsibilities?”

This, Jon thinks, is a kind way of saying he'd like to slack off. “Yes. Well, that’s what they wanted to talk to me about. They… have an idea.”

This is exactly what Tim said, voice lowered, after glancing at the door: hear them out— they have an idea. 

This idea, as it turned out, is basically for Jon to no longer be Head Archivist. If he’s okay with it, Sasha will take on his role, though they plan to distribute much of the responsibilities among the department. She’s qualified for it, far more than he is, and she’s actually interested. He’d do less office work and more looking for information, investigating places, and tracking people down.

“They essentially suggested that I switch positions with Sasha,” he explains.

“Same department, fewer responsibilities,” Melanie says.

Georgie frowns. “That would be good,” she acknowledges, “but your current title and salary are higher.”

That’s another thing. “I’d keep my salary.”

Apparently, they’d all be getting raises, they said, then failed to elaborate beyond that. Tim just gestured between Sasha and Martin, who both looked at Jon with widened eyes and shrugged and seemed extremely suspicious. 

Jon didn’t press it. Plausible deniability.

Though it's not like Elias wouldn't find out anyway. He probably already knows somehow, the creep.

“What?” Melanie asks incredulously. “Do it! Why wouldn’t you do it? That's great!”

He sighs and sits back in his chair. “It would be showing that I can’t do what I was supposed to. Failing so much that I have to be demoted.”

“No,” Melanie says, looking at him like he’s stupid. “You’re unhappy. They care enough to do something about it and smart enough to have come up with a solution.” She grins. “Even if it sounds suspect as hell.”

They do care. That’s why he feels worse about it. They even specifically instructed him to “tell them to fuck off if they’re overstepping”. 

He knows it’s not anything to do with Sasha wanting his position; Tim was very clear about that, but he’d know anyway. She should’ve gotten the job in the first place, he’s realised.

All he’d lose are his title and his office, and both of those have caused him more stress than anything else.

“It’d just be doing what’s best for you and your department,” Melanie says. “You want to be a good boss. Isn’t that what you’re supposed to do?”

For a long while, he thought of his assistants all only in terms of their work: Tim as baffling but competent, Sasha as diligent and reliable, Martin as blundering but hard-working. He’s hesitant feels more awkward to accept what they're offering than anything, though he now knows none of them would care about that.

It would help Sasha and the department as a whole, yes, but they offered it to help him.

After outlaying the idea, they started going into how they’re glad they’d gotten to know him better and hoped he could become more comfortable at work, but Jon blanked out once the conversation turned sappy. He nodded, cleared his throat to say something, and then fled to the document storage room and waited for all of them to leave the Archives before coming back out. 

It was a long while. The fairy lights in there looked nice, at least.

Georgie nods at him knowingly. “You already agree. You just have to talk to them.”

Ah. The other problem.

***

The rest of the weekend passes agonisingly slowly and yet is over far too quickly.

Georgie wants to know more about Jon’s coworkers, so Melanie describes their game night to her. Without thinking, Jon mentions Tim and Sasha’s original suggestion for that night and accidentally inspires Melanie and Georgie to drag him out for laser tag.

It’s loud and chaotic and every surface in the place feels like it’s absolutely covered in germs. He has fun.

They order noodles and go back to the flat to eat and chat shit, then try to make a Swiss roll, motivated by watching _Bake Off_ , which effectively ruins all of the kitchen cleaning Jon did. The cake falls apart when they try to roll it but tastes better than it looks, and all they eat far too much of it while watching _Bill & Ted_.

But then Georgie gives each of them a hug and leaves, and Melanie’s busy on Sunday, so Jon spends all day both trying to and trying not to think about what he’ll say at work.

He turns on a documentary about gazelles but absorbs absolutely none of it, so after fifteen minutes, he gives up trying to be calm and instead does his laundry while acting out imaginary conversations.

***

In the end, all he has to say is "yes".


	16. For the Most Part, Good

Well, Jon actually has to repeat himself several times to reassure them.

When he walks into the Archives, Tim calls him over to ask what he got up to over the weekend. Jon does not mention the panic cleaning, sleepover, breakfast pizza, laser tag, baking, movie, gazelle documentary, or laundry. 

“Ah, you know,” he says instead. “Not much.”

“Right, nice.” Tim nods. “So. Important question: what are your thoughts on—”

“Yes,” Jon interrupts, feeling like a fizzy drink that had been shaken up all weekend, ready to burst. “I want to do it. And I know that it’s a career decision I should consider carefully and it’s only been a few days.”

“—Tango Ice Blasts…?” Tim finishes, gesturing lamely towards a cup on his desk. “Uh, alright. Yeah? Great.”

“Oh,” Jon says. He glances around to avoid looking at Tim and accidentally makes eye contact with Martin, who’s trying and miserably failing to seem like he’s not eavesdropping.

“Okay,” Tim agrees, generous. “So Sasha’s gone to Artefact Storage for something, but we can talk about it when she comes back.”

Jon nods, feeling the heat in his face, and turns away, wishing he could hide in his office. If he’s not going to be Head Archivist anymore, he’s going to need to find a new hiding place in the Institute. Document Storage worked pretty well and looks nice, but everyone is in and out of there too often for his comfort.

He’s just decided to go to the library when Sasha comes in, arms full of books.

They all head to the break room to talk: Alright. Jon is sure; are they sure? Okay. Yes. Yes? Yes. Great.

He struggles to face Sasha, he’s never really been able to look directly at Martin, and it’s sort of hard to take Tim seriously because of the 9 am raspberry Tango Ice Blast that’s staining his mouth blue. The conversation is long and repetitive and uncomfortably heartfelt and makes him feel so much better it’s ridiculous.

***

The door to the Head Archivist’s office is usually kept open. Inside, the shelves are neat, though the contents are still largely out of order, and a string of fairy lights drapes across them. The room— and all of the Archives, for that matter— look a bit like Pinterest spit up over musty office, but the resulting atmosphere feels significantly less suffocating.

The Head Archivist herself isn’t in the office all that often. Nevertheless, two of her assistants, one of them with a proclivity for cleaning and the other for aesthetics, spent weeks setting the room up. Now the room is used more as a quiet space for recording statements or whenever they just need it.

Jon hurries down the hallway from the office, having just gone in to look for some files, and his phone buzzes. He pauses to tuck the stack under one arm and digs his phone out of his pocket to check.

 **Melanie King** (11:28) what time is everyone coming later?  
 **Melanie King** (11:29) we have a shoot at 12 and i probably won’t be done til like 5

He types out a reply and then takes a moment to look at his hands. He’s been doing this a lot, can’t help the exasperated smile he gives whenever he catches sight of them, the purple polish on his nails.

He’s an Archival Assistant now, and painting his nails purple was apparently an “essential and exclusive rite of passage”, even though Sasha, who is no longer an assistant, and even Melanie, who just wanted to be included, also flaunt the same nail polish.

They’re also trying to ease their way into the inevitable chaos that will be cooking together, so everyone’s coming over later for instant noodles because of the simplicity of their preparation, but it’s also a competition because they discovered they all have their own tricks to making it that they each insist are the best.

Some of the production team from the show Melanie now works on are coming over as well, so who knows how this’ll go. They must get along, seeing as they’ve only just started working together and have, bafflingly, already all gone axe-throwing multiple times. Jon’s not met them before because unlike a certain somebody, he doesn’t tag along to his friends’ work gatherings.

Georgie’s supposed to join them too, which is a whole other thing because _apparently_ she and Melanie have been dating for _months_ and Jon only _just_ found out even though one of them’s his best friend and he lives with the other, but they “thought he knew already, sorry” and didn’t bother actually telling him because it was “obvious, dumbass— you really didn't know?”.

To be honest, he’s kind of been avoiding both of them— not because they’re dating— but because, well, speaking of dating and Jon being oblivious, after they all went out and Georgie met his coworkers, she and Melanie came up with… an idea. And they keep asking him about it, but it didn’t make him realise anything, and he really isn’t and hasn't been thinking about it at all.

He makes his way over to his desk and sits down to start looking through the files. It still feels sort of strange, doing work out here. It’s not like the Archives are that big, but it feels so open in comparison, like he can get up and go somewhere if he wants to.

When he was Head Archivist and spent most of the day sat at his desk, he figured his assistants were always standing around, coming into his office, going to the break room and around the Institute and outside partially because they’re just like that and partially because that’s what follow-up requires, but Sasha’s as busy and active as ever. He sees her on most mornings that he’s on time, in the hallways as they each head somewhere, chatting with Tim by his desk, over a cup of tea in the break room. He sees everyone more often than before, actually.

He used to be in charge, but he feels like he has more control now. There’s still work he has to slog through, of course, but if he encounters a problem, he might be able to do something about it, work around or through it, rather than just stew in it miserably.

He finds the record he’s looking for and gets up to go take someone’s statement.

***

Jon cooks garlic with sesame oil in the pot before making his ramen, Georgie adds a bit of some curry block to hers, Sasha adds cheese, and Martin brings 3x spicy _buldak_ because he is trying to kill them. Melanie makes her ramen with poached egg, earning her a high-five from Tim, who brought beef and tomato Pot Noodle and sardines and peanut butter “as a joke” but then eats it all anyway. 

Considering they’re the kind of people who like Melanie and went axe-throwing twice in a month, Melanie’s coworkers are surprisingly sort of ordinary, but they’re all nice and brought along different flavours of instant noodles too.

The food is, for the most part, good, though it’s sort of weird, and then they all talk for a while before playing cards. The less competitive of them start to peel off from the game, and after about an hour, only Sasha, Melanie, and Martin are left, now playing some complex game that none of the rest of them understand. Jon watches the game, which involves a lot of them muttering to themselves and furrowing their brows, but the rules remain incomprehensible.

“Was that even fun?” Georgie asks once the game ends with Martin victorious. It didn’t look like it, but all three of them nod. “I’ve played before, but I found it kind of boring.”

“It usually is, but Martin has these weird house rules,” Melanie says, frowning down at the cards Jon’s straightening into a pile on the coffee table. 

Sasha makes a face. “Well, you say ‘house rules’, but I’m pretty sure he just made them up on the spot.”

Martin flushes, lets out a little “heh”, and scratches lightly at his ear. The whole thing is horrifically endearing and makes Jon want to set himself aflame.

Actually, it makes him want to stand up and hook his chin over Martin’s shoulder, which is really the problem, isn’t it. Not that he could reach. Not that he’s thought about it.

He keeps his eyes trained on the cards as he fits them back into their box, and the second Martin turns around, Georgie pokes Jon in his side and Melanie raises her eyebrows at him because they inflicted this suffering on him and won’t even let him undergo it in peace.

By the time everyone leaves, Jon’s exhausted. Georgie, Melanie, and Martin helped him with the washing up, but he tidies up in the living room for a bit. 

It’s different, though— not the weighted feeling he’d grown accustomed to. He’s tired like he can go to sleep and wake up feeling better.

He does.

**Author's Note:**

> thank you so much for reading!


End file.
